


Ambushed

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo's Restaurant, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Blood Donation, Brief yet unpleasant interaction with Sherlock's parents, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Canon-Typical Violence, Career Ending Injuries, Complete, Discussion of Drug Rehab, Eventual Johnlock, Faithful in Adversity, First time and lots of times and ways after that, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Irrelevant or mostly irrelevant case details, M/M, Medical, Military Backstory, Moshulu Restaurant, Mutter Museum, Mycroft does something terrible, Mycroft ends up Redeeming Himself, Mycroft is not nice, Mycroft's Meddling, Nightmares, Please forgive the incorrect military details, Protective Mycroft, Recreational Drug Use, Repressed John, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is a Brat, Tags Contain Spoilers, Travel, Wedding Rings, things get resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft the omnipotent strikes a low blow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Selected

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags. I don't want to add a "spoiler" note in the beginning, but stay tuned for an important disclaimer.

Mycroft rifled through the folders in front of him.  The Dossiers, more correctly.  A few were worthy of a second look, but unfortunately most were not.  Educational background including grades, family dynamics (most of them dysfunctional, he saw, for lesser reasons than his own, _interesting_ ), background records, criminal presence if any, including sealed juvenile records.  Relationships, previous spouses, the occasional child, and history of infidelity.  Intelligence scores and gender preferences.

And often, because of the search criteria he'd specified, some extensive military profiling, including entrance exams, personality and character traits.

The pile of discards grew larger.

Mycroft sighed, knowing he had to push through this, find someone suitable, before it was too late.  He was leaving nothing to chance, as much as was in his (considerable) power.  Caring is not an advantage, he'd said, more than once, and it was never more true than when he looked at his little brother.  The bloody insufferable wanker.

++

Sherlock was bored despite the textbook, ledger, newspaper, and mobile all layered open on the desk in front of him.  The chemical equation on the forward wall ahead - _solved, of course, bloody advanced chemistry with a moron at the podium in front of the lecture hall_ \- gave way to an overzealous mind of synapses firing from background to foreground and morphed into suspicions about the crime detailed in The Sun - _poorly written, terrible syntax, weakly worded_ \- article in front of him.  The newsprint mocked him, and without a second thought, he grabbed the lighter from inside his pocket where it had been keeping company with the pack of fags, and lit the corner of the paper on fire.

_"Holmes!"_

++

The activity in the compound typically ran at a constant hum of sounds, voices, equipment, moaning, or transport, and the staff was accustomed to the constant din.  A new arrival, a nurse's quick assessment, and a summons rose above the baseline decibel level.  "John!"

The nurse's voice conveyed the urgency of his attention from within the staging area of the triage tent.  Stripping off bloody gloves, John arrived at Noah's side to observe the nurse pressing bloody ABD dressings over the calf wound of a pale, unresponsive soldier just brought in, injured in a surrounding village.  The injury was limited to the lower extremity, likely an IED or artillery, it didn't much matter the means, but it certainly was imminently lethal now.  John let his eyes flick to the pair of boots on the stretcher.  If they acted quickly enough, they could hopefully interrupt the dying process.  While they may eventually hope to send the soldier home with only one boot, at least that would eliminate the transport that too often occurred inside a flag-draped casket.  The clock was ticking.  The blood was thick and heavy, bright arterial red, welling up in a crimson fountain, saturating the fatigues and everything beneath it from the makeshift field dressings just below the knee.  There was no reason to remove the nurse's hands from attempting haemostasis, and John knew this patient had just upstaged the few others clamoring for the operating theatre even as he deftly secured a wide tourniquet over the wound to help slow the haemorrhage.  " _Jesus_!" he said under his breath and a few heads raised in interest, knowing that John did not rattle easily and that he was as solid and dependable as anyone could ever hope to be in a critical situation.  The medical staff there all knew that if Dr. John Watson was concerned, it was with good reason.  "Head of the line," he said nodding at the nurse at the door holding a clipboard and checking trauma tags.  The threat of impending exsanguination bumped up your priority and rushed a visit to the OR.  "This kid's first.  Two units here, stat," John said as two corpsmen arrived, and he flipped the dogtag visible.  "Well, Jason Rivers, type A negative, nice to meet you."  

Noah spoke up then, pressure still being held, a curiously distant tone, quiet and calm, "This leg is positively crushed.  I can feel the bone frags shifting."  He did not shudder, not after all this time and with all the traumatic injuries they'd treated.  John pointed at the OR theatre and the cluster moved en masse, quickly, taking the patient inside with coordinated efforts.  They'd done this all too frequently.

"Let's get that blood.  This is going to be a quick amp if we're going to save him at all."  The patient's pallor was underpinned by a dusky cyanosis of the shoulders and posterior neck, all signs of impending circulatory collapse.  Volume depletion, John thought as he eyeballed the bloodloss.  Pale was bad, blue was worse, but pale and blue together, usually equated to him signing a death certificate after the surgery session.  Hopefully not today, he thought as they took their places in the room.  

An anaesthetist standing by was already at work.  He quickly cannulated the external jugular vein after a brisk scrub, hooked up a waiting bag of normal saline, pressurised the infusor,  while another nurse placed the cardiac monitor.  "Heart rate's 130," he observed, catching John's eye.  "How quick can you be?"  He connected the blood tubing to the other lumen of the central line, hanging up the unit of blood to run wide open.

John was quickly capped and masked, wearing a sterile gown and snapping on his surgical gloves, and he tilted his head to the side.  "Quick as I need to be."  A circulating nurse slid masks on those closest to the patient and applied as much of a sterile field as was possible over the leg they'd be working on.   John nodded at the anaesthetist, waiting until the airway was in and the patient was under, then began instructions for the quick removal of hands, the arterial clamps he would rapidly apply.  The energy around the team escalated as they organised efforts, all tightly focused and tightly strung like racehorses at the gate.  "On my count," he spoke quietly, intently to Noah while gesturing at the circulating nurse for liberal application of betadine, "move your hands out quick."  He was poised with scalpel while the circulator held the vascular clamp out and ready.  Bright blue eyes from over John's mask quickly made the rounds of those waiting, and he began the hasty, methodical countdown, "1-2-3!"

++

The secure file in front of him on the computer would have incensed Sherlock to probably justifiable rage, a reactive explosion of furious sibling detonation, with almost certain injury, perhaps homicide, his own, technically fratricide.  It must never be found, and Mycroft considered that he should view it, glean what information he needed, delete it, purge the computer along with any trace, reference to, or history of the contents.  He had launched a program that took into consideration preferences ranging from personal, physical attributes, habitus, and even clothing style, to come up with a body type.  It was used primarily for fun and jesting with mates, he was sure, but he thought it worthwhile.  Educational, useful, practical.  He knew, of course, that Sherlock would never actually tell him, or anyone else, what sort he preferred when it came to attraction.  At least now he could narrow it down with some certainty that Sherlock would at least be interested.

While Mycroft teased, more than once, about Sherlock's virginity, he knew that was not actually the case.  He'd known about the dalliance with that male teacher in school, what he looked like, how he acted, how often they were together, and why it ended.  Of course, _Mycroft_ was the reason it ended, the threat of prison and then assurance of physical harm whilst in prison being enough to force the teacher to resign his position, move his unsuspecting family a few hours away.  The absence of a formal restraining order mattered not - he would never contact Sherlock again, and Mycroft made sure of it.  The threat of exposure had been enough.  The few photos Mycroft had shown him, obtained as insurance, for Sherlock's protection, were the final straw that convinced the man that the relationship was officially, irrevocably, permanently over.  The subsequent and final liaison between teacher and student, under close observation as well as personal and video surveillance, was, at Mycroft's direction, to be a humane farewell, a short apologetic encounter in which the teacher was to let Sherlock down easily, beg forgiveness, and gently end it all immediately while attempting to spare Sherlock's emotional state, minimise damage.

He knew about Victor Trevor shortly into their affair, and later, of the introduction to rough sex, of the subsequent escapism of cocaine, tried to stay out of it as much as possible until he got wind of the mistreatment his brother had suffered.  Decisively, after Sherlock had shown visible bruising, Mycroft had ordered an intervention.  He knew how many months it had taken Victor to heal from his broken bones - _not enough, in his opinion_ \- knew how the pale, jagged scar on his face bothered him - _bloody good, he thought_.  He knew that Sherlock had moved on quickly on the outside even as he knew how much it had hurt when Victor had disappeared one day unexpectedly.  He knew Sherlock received the short apologetic letter designed to offer insufficient closure - but necessary.  He recalled on nights when Sherlock was in danger and had stopped caring, where he was a risk to himself, he remembered the briefing he'd been given, of the handling, of Victor's screams.  The pleading that Victor had done, which Mycroft had watched on CCTV, would never make up for the pain.  Mycroft should have moved more quickly, regretted it, blamed himself for the predicament he now found himself in.  He had resolved to never be caught unawares, ever again.  

Hopefully, this would solve the problem before it escalated to worse heights.  The results were right in front of him now - male (obviously), shorter than Sherlock (not challenging, given his brother's height), preferred traditional clothing style, lighter straight hair, stocky or muscular build.  Sounded vanilla enough, Mycroft thought.  Adding these results to what Mycroft already knew - determined, confident, and not easily dominated - should make this relatively forthright.

He had waited long enough, and Sherlock would never do this on his own.  He would screen suitable companions, put them together, turn up the heat, and then be nearly assured of results.  He didn't realise that he would be forced to turn up the heat before the new venture ever got off the ground.

++

Sherlock was angry.  The detective inspector had refused his call again, just a few days ago, and Sherlock's help was too late, the criminal already long fled and the trail cold.   _Bloody Yard_ , it would serve them right to never arrive at the proper conclusion.  He had been alerted by a breaking news text on his mobile to the evolving situation.  And Sherlock wanted access to this crime scene, now, _dammit_ , while there was still time.  He could help, already knew a few things based on location and weather patterns, things that were _obvious_ and that other people never seemed to see, the _idiots_.  So he stormed out of his flat, coatless, hatless, and mindless of the mid-experiment that would have completely dissolved into inert compounds by the time he returned.  It would be a wasted trip due to the quick perception of the DI who would immediately identify the obvious influence, the toxic effects of substance abuse, and discount anything and everything he had to say.  It was not to be the first time that the DI was forced to deal with the mind-altered, drug induced mania of the bright young man.

"Go home, Holmes."  The detective said, gripping the thin arm of the tall man - _boy, really_ , all gangly arms and curls - who was leaning toward the crime scene tape stretched tight across the doorway.  "Get away from my scene."

"I need to _see_!"  He tried shrugging out of the DI's grasp without success.  "Let me through!"

Greg Lestrade sighed, jaws clenched in frustration.  "Tell you what?"  He waited for Sherlock to focus, pay attention, and make eye contact.  "You hear me.  You will never help me while you are impaired.   _Never_."  He drew out the words slowly, making direct eye contact in the hopes that he might listen someday.  As he spoke, he guided Sherlock to the periphery of the crowd, gave him a firm shake intended to wake him up, get his attention.  "Go the hell home.  Sober up, stay clean."  Greg watched the face crumple in discouraged frustration, knowing he had little hope Sherlock would follow directions.  "And for god's sake, wear a damn coat.  It's winter."  As Greg turned, he was bombarded with the thought that the boy needed a parent.  Or guardian.  Or, more aptly, a bloody _babysitter_.  He hesitated mid step to watch Sherlock leave the scene.  If Sherlock was looking to make a dramatic exit, nearly tripping over the kerb was not exactly how he was planning on it, but as he, slightly uncoordinated, stumbled then regained his footing, he heard the DI growl, with ferocity, "If I see you again like this, it'll be the back of _my_ police vehicle for you."

++

"Watson."  He stopped the man in fatigues from leaving the weekly senior staff meeting in the office hall.

John had been ready to return to the wards for rounds, a bandanna at the ready to cover his mouth and nose from the incessant stinging of the wind-whipped sand.

"Assignment."  The CO, having been briefed on the contents, handed John an official, sealed envelope.

"Sir?"

"New orders."

Puzzled and intrigued, John ripped the envelope, found an official offer, a promotion, to return to England, a desk job in London.  Well paying, overseeing medical care and several wings of the military hospital, a rotation of surgery and of leadership.  It sounded cushy and safe and administrative.  And boring in contrast with the field surgery, the trauma medicine, the daily provision of medical care that mattered.  He loved the military unit near the front, the challenge of immediate action, of medical trauma, of being at the pinnacle of his surgical skill level.  He thrived on helping where most needed, where he made a difference.  The unit had just received word from the army hospital where they shipped soldiers after surgery, that Jason, whose leg they'd urgently amputated, had survived.  He'd been an RN at a nearby unit, where the injury had occurred, and was being shipped home with no signs of infection.  It had been very good news.  John considered that he belonged here close to the front, where his decisions were helpful, beneficial, life-saving.  And the _excitement_ , John knew, the thrill, was what helped him get up every day and do it again.  The CO was watching him as he read.

"This is mandatory?  I am being reassigned?"

"It is highly recommended.  An honour to be selected."  The CO was concerned, already, at John's balking at what everyone knew was a dream job, too good to be believed.  A promotion, a safe area, a schedule without weekends or holidays or being on call 24/7.  "You can decline.  But haven't you wanted the rank of Major?"

That part was true - the title not so much, but the pay increase and other benefits.  "I have, sir," he offered tentatively.  John already helped with his family expenses - and Harry's rehab, _again_ \- and the pay increase would have been much appreciated.  "But I like it here, with my unit, my staff.  I'm _needed_ here."

"Think about it."  He leaned in, knowing Captain Watson was a rarity indeed, a man of integrity, good soldier, skilled surgeon.  He spoke in serious tones, looked into John's eyes with respect for his character.  "Think hard."  John acknowledged the slow tones, his eyes taking in all that his CO was _and was not_ saying.  "Let me know tomorrow?"

John heard the veiled warning.  He knew he was going to turn it down, but nodded.  "I will, sir.  Thank you, sir."  John stood for a moment there in the canvas office, the wind whipping outside, whistling through the gaps in the thick tent.  He had a few questions regarding his selection, wondered whose attention he had somehow grabbed.  Or whom he had ticked off.

++

The email notice came across Mycroft's attention a few days later, and he seethed just a bit, indignant.  How _dare he_?  Who exactly did he think he was, refusing such an offer, a flattering and complimentary honour.

The discard pile on the floor behind him was tall.  The only two folders that remained on his desk that were acceptable considerations were Watson's and one other, and word had reached Mycroft that the other soldier had tested genetically positive for a strong family history that might indicate an early demise, also an unacceptable risk.  He was waiting for confirmation, but at the moment, it looked like Watson, with his love of the adrenaline rush and his perhaps not quite recognised bisexuality, was his only solution for the moment.  Or it might be time to start the whole process over again with fresh files.

He steepled his hands, leaned back in his chair.  He had not come this far only to be thwarted now.  Determined, he picked up the secure landline, and asked to be connected to another government official with MI-6 credentials who would aid in the endeavor.  It was time to drop the gloves in John's unit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I missed anything. Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated if you're inclined.
> 
> Chapter 2 will not be far behind - just a few polishing edits to go!
> 
> This chapter included a cameo appearance by an original character, Jason, that showed up in "Not Quite in His Right Mind" who I found intriguing and likable enough to tell another piece of his story here.


	2. Isolated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a bit of description of a military endeavor gone a bit awry here, and it got more intense than I was expecting. But I will assure a happy ending! I think we can all trust Captain Watson to hold his own...

"You want me to _what_?"

"You are only to follow orders."

" _Sir?!_ "  It was a quietly spoken conveyance of disbelief.

"What part of follow orders did you not understand."  The decorated visitor spoke calm and low, more a statement than a question.  He looked on, seriously, with a slightly raised eyebrow and leaned back in the chair he occupied, conveying confidence and a bearing not to be trifled with.

The soldier standing in front of the visitor wisely held his tongue even as his eyes took in the closed folder that lay on the desk.  The photos from a recent-enough indiscretion that had been shown to him by the visiting VIP, assured his cooperation whether he liked it or not.  He would, of course, follow orders, and so would the private to whom he would delegate certain mission critical tasks.  It had been stressed, _this_ information would be shared with absolutely no one beyond the two of them.  The motivation was assured, the need for secrecy essential.  And now guaranteed.

He stood, signaling the end of the meeting.  "Look, even at my level, I am not apprised of _every_ detail.  I can assure you that there is good reason behind this plan.  Things we will never know, never need to know.  It is a matter, apparently, of national security, from the highest level, and these orders are firm."

"Yes, sir."  The soldier's eyes were wide, but he was a soldier, trained to obey even these orders that he didn't like or understand.  The plan would unfold as directed.  He only hoped that he would never have to look John Watson in the eye ever again.

++

As if following someone down a long tunnel with odd noises and lights, Sherlock awakened slowly and off-kilter.  There was a pounding in his chest, a rapid hyperdynamic squeezing and subsequent breathy noise in his ears, a swoosh of sounds, valves and vessels opening, closing, pumping, flowing.  He was chilly, shaky, his socked feet hanging over the cheap couch, tee shirt ridden up over ribs, pyjama pants riding low, hipbones jutting, too prominent, particularly laying in this position.  The concavity of his abdomen caught his eye, the dip between rectus abdominus muscle and iliac crest was sharply delineated.  

He was alone there in his uni housing apartment, roommates gone on holiday and house staff absent.  Waking in his dorm was a good sign, certainly preferable than to wake up in an alley, holding cell, or hospital.  Or worse, with bloody _Mycroft_ looking down his pompous nose at yet another of his misadventures.  Although, he acknowledged, awakening in different locations with an audience of any kind did tend to break up the tedious monotony of his days.  If he could only figure out a reliable way to never have to deal with handcuffs again, though, that would be best.  The bloody things pinched something terrible, particularly when he managed to aggravate the idiot applying them.

With trembling arms, he pushed himself upright, surprised at the dizziness and weakness he was feeling.  He stood, legs trembling even more than his arms had been, the large muscle groups of his thighs protesting as he stumbled down the hall to the loo.  His urine was dark and concentrated, and his mouth was dry even after brushing and rinsing.  He perched against the edge of the sink a moment trying to remember which, if any substances he might have indulged in, but he was fairly certain it had been quite some time, a week at least.  Although, he admitted, he was not feeling especially sharp at the moment.

On wobbly legs, he walked back out to the common room, brushing haphazardly against the wall as his balance was unsteady, coordination greatly affected.  The room told quite a story, unfinished experiment on the table, research in various places on the desk, texts open, the computer on sleep mode by now, but open.  His dressing gown hung askew on the back of the couch.  His mind seemed mushy and slow to process, but he glanced around, eyes catching on the dining hall menu and hours that were posted by the door.  Sherlock realised, then, the nature of the problem.  He'd forgotten to eat since.... he couldn't actually recall.  And, he wasn't really even hungry, but apparently his body needed some sort of nutrition from time to time.  

 _Bloody transport_.

++

"Dr. Watson, your radio!"

John paused as his team was piling into the LandRover, about to embark on a rescue attempt.  "What?"  The mission had asked for volunteers to retrieve three injured men, bring them back from where they'd fallen and were unable to escape due to enemy presence and crippling, life-threatening injuries.

One of the sergeants in communications held out a radio for John.  "This one's for you, sir."

"I have one."  John could feel it without looking, seated smoothly behind his upper arm where it belonged.  He was itchy to get underway, as were the rest of them.

"Loose wire, sir, see?"  He handed the new radio out in front of the captain even as he reached out toward the radio he'd been instructed to damage discreetly and then assure replacement.  Getting to Captain Watson's radio had been easy, as his quarters were neat, tidy, easily accessible.  It had taken brief seconds while the team had assembled supplies from the hospital, readied themselves for a dangerous recovery mission.  He'd been instructed that there needed to be a recording and monitoring device on a few random mission team leaders, without their knowledge in order to prevent bias, and swapping them without John's knowledge would have been obvious, and possibly raised suspicion.  His old radio had been with him a long time, had been customised, notched after certain missions, the strap worn soft and distinct.  John would have known instantly.  The sergeant felt no qualms about following instructions to swap equipment in this manner - no harm, no foul, in his mind.

John slid the small receiver strap from his shoulder, looked.  One of the wires indeed was loose, frayed, pulled out.

"Thanks."  He put the strap up over his head, settling his new equipment in place, switched it on, and didn't give it a second thought as he buckled into the vehicle with the rest of the team.

The driver got them as close as he could to where the last radio communication had placed them, and John strapped on the backpack containing a first aid kit and medical supplies, cinched it securely around his waist.  His service weapon was handy, as was the rest of his gear.  The commander brought them into a last minute huddle for final instructions.  "We split up, three teams, circle around.  At least one of the injured will need to be carried.  It's hostile territory," he said unnecessarily, "watch your backs."  John nodded, watching others outfitted with emergency supplies and agreeing with the mission leader's plan as the quickest, safest, and most likely to succeed.  "Most important, if --  _when_ you find them, radio in.  If you reach the highway on the far side of the zone, return to origination point."

He had no idea that they were all being closely watched, scrutinised.  There were soldiers of all types - friend, enemy, conspirator - that waited for the team, with specific instruction regarding one of the rescue mission team members in particular.  It was a set up with falsely planted intell designed to isolate one soldier, pick off that one solitary man from the safety and protection of the herd.  And then ensure he was  _removed_.

++

On the screen in front of him, Mycroft watched the signals of the transponders he'd placed on his operatives, including the one John Watson was now carrying, lodged in the radio that would very shortly have it's transmission remotely disabled.  There was no actual injured soldier, only, as far as the boots on the ground unit knew, a directive from someone high up in Military Intelligence at the importance of this mock rescue drill.  There was minimal danger in the mission, with enemy presence noted in the area, but Mycroft secured things as much as he could.  It was accepted that there was always a degree of risk, with peril being part and parcel of military life.  However, there were already those stationed discreetly nearby, ready to move in, to stealthily assist those who were there on the ground, ready for any contingency.  They were well trained, hand picked, and smartly obedient.  Orders were strict and known only to those few skilled men in unrecognisable camouflage uniforms and darkly painted faces.  Mycroft heard some of the stilted radio chatter and leaned back in his chair, the end of his biro tapping in nervous anticipation against the leather-armed chair.

++

"Moving out."  The earpiece sounded in John's ear, and he started off with his mates, spreading out.

He responded.  "Moving out, team 1."  Other voices echoed quietly across the radios, "Team 2," "Team 3," and the men began moving cautiously into the overgrowth.  Their radius grew, the net widening, with steady footsteps under vigilant eyes.  The terrain was inaccessible to vehicles, thick brush, rocks, the occasional thicket and tall trees obscuring teammates as they spread out.  John could recall other rescues, some that went well, successful, others that ended in body retrieval, some seemingly pointless and empty.  He could feel adrenaline circulating even as he hoped for an exhilarating save, and he pressed forward, feeling the urgency as he noted the many bootprints in the sand, some very fresh.

They had covered quite a bit of ground, moving slowly and cautiously, the breeze whipping branches overhead.  From several command centers away, a radio transmission was sent to the coordinator in the LandRover, and a message was relayed to the team, "Mission aborted, head back.  False intell.  Enemy still present, all teams, leg it!" sounded in all earpieces - _save one_.  Answering clicks from team members - _save one_ \- and the rescue teams kept a low profile as they began their stealthy return, maintaining silence for group safety.

John crept singularly forward, his radio silent, steps slow and calm, and he froze as his boot clipped a low lying rock.  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he stopped mid-stride, crouching low to the ground, hoping he would remain unseen even as something alerted him to the presence of someone just ahead, and John's heart started to thrum at the discovery of the wounded soldier.  Wondering at the extent of the injuries that awaited his treatment, he kept his eyes riveted on the area he'd just seen the faintest movement from behind a cluster of trees. 

Ahead of John, a slim soldier waited in position, concealed barely out of sight.  He'd studied the photo earlier, knew his target, knew from the small speaker in his own ear that his objective was approaching directly at him.  It would be a lightning quick plan once execution was confirmed, first, the recording of voices that was to be played as a distraction (more importantly, for final confirmation of his target's facial recognition), then the turn-aim-fire with strict instruction that it was to be a high shoulder shot, to incapacitate, nothing that would be perilous.  He was a marksman, the best in his regiment, selected personally for this task and briefed on avoiding subclavian vein and lung tissue.  A team was already in place to rescue then evacuate, a contingency plan, and the soldier would be shipped to a nearby field hospital, stabilised, and be sent down, off the front.  His own CO had assured him it would be well rewarded and that it was a completely necessary endeavor.  He assumed it was that the soldier needed to be removed before suffering battle fatigue or some such, but it was not his job to think, so it really didn't matter to him.  He listened to the quiet direction in his ear counting off distance, not particularly caring the mission details.  First and foremost, he was a soldier, following orders.

Rapidly spoken Dari (or Pashto, it was too quick for John to be certain) broke the silence, and John raised his head in alarm, eyes front, scanning left to right, seeing and hearing nothing further.  There was movement again, a flicker in his peripheral vision, and he looked up wide-eyed, and swiftly, just in time to see a young man in black step out quickly from cover, close enough to appreciate the type of sniper rifle aimed directly at him.  Calm, glittering eyes stared him down, and in a split second, John reached for his weapon, as the gun pointed at him immediately fired.  Searing pain flung him backwards, a starburst of pain in his shoulder, dark maroon blood spilling over fatigues and gear.  His knees buckled, falling supine, helmet striking the sand hard enough to leave a divot.  The agony, burning and piercing drew his breath and his own moan sounded foreign in his ears and punctuated with a hissed curse.  The pounding swish of his own heartbeat was loud in his ears, accelerating, the wicked irony of his heart rate increasing to maintain consciousness even as the tachycardia worsened blood loss.  In the moment he moved to grab his radio, summon help, footsteps were in his peripheral vision and a boot firmly trapped his forearm against his chest, hand clutching the radio.  John stared up at a second unidentifiably black-garbed soldier, rifle held but not pointed at John.  From the other side of John a heavy cloth was thrown unexpectedly across his face, completely obscuring his vision.  He could feel the blood trickling overtop of his shoulder and down under his armpit, felt dread as he realised this was likely the end.  He wasn't sure if he should expect smothering, another gunshot, something he would inhale through the cloth.  From somewhere in his mind came a plea, _please God, let me live!_

John felt the boot removed, his hand grabbed, a knee into his palm, the radio batted away.  Pressure was applied thickly down over the wound, driving his breath from his body as the pain crescendo-ed.  His sleeve was sliced, could feel the cool metal of a knife blade that caught and abraded some of his skin in the process, exposing the flesh of his arm. His hands were trembling, despite the injury and the other being held down, and his voice engaged, " _Fuck off!"_ he snarled, flailing his body roughly within the limitations of the searing pain and the man restraining him.  The evasive manoeuvers were quickly restricted by additional gloved hands.  There was a brisk rubbing sensation, cold and wet, at his antecub, and the brutal piercing of a large bore needle followed by burning, then tape and the sense of coolness diffusing and dissipating along his arm, traveling toward his shoulder.  He heard yelling, recognised the protest of his own voice.  His vision shifted askew, and he identified the resulting nystagmus even with the cloth over his wide eyes, as he recognised the beginning stage of sedation, likely a benzodiazepine, and then harsh stinging burning of something else along his arm - _Jesus Christ almighty_ \- forced upon him as his mental awareness started at imaginings of prison and torture and suffering and abruptly deteriorated into nothingness.  The shivery fine motor tremors in both hands ceased as the medications worked on central nervous system and relaxed voluntary muscle groups.  Retrograde amnesia was not a guaranteed side effect, but, in this case, John's heightened awareness under stress predisposed him to be a highly susceptible candidate to experience it.  However, each possibility had been considered, and there were a few options prepared and ready for use, waiting in the background in case this didn't work.

++

Sherlock was restless.  The syringe between his fingers was calling, summoning, demanding to be used.  He gave it not even a second thought, adeptly applying a tourniquet then slapping up a fat, bouncy antecubital vein, a quick swipe of an alcohol pad, as he re-introduced his own organic compounds to the synthetic ones he'd purchased and purified of course, barely feeling the pinch of the (clean, of course, only an _idiot_ would do otherwise) needle through epidermal layers, through tunica adventitia, tunica media, tunica intima.  It was then the slow, unrushed almost sensual press of the plunger that he savored, feeling first the sting and burn inside his vein, then the much craved floating sensation, whether actual effect or merely anticipation or hyperawareness.  The injected liquid, seconds later was touching plasma, haemoglobin, lymphocytes, and platelets, pumped through, dispersed through the body under direction of his pristinely functional left ventricle, reaching capillaries before beginning the return journey through peripheral then central veins, inferior vena cava, right atrium.  And within moments, his skin was singing, oxygen circulating in molecules he could actually feel behind his eyes, enervating both optic nerve and retina, alighting on tingling skin and enlightening every nuance of his respirations, the inhale, the pause, then the exhale.  He could feel each cell involved in carbon dioxide exchange, each alveoli stretching, the cells touching oxygen in a single-layered membrane.  Heart pounding, rapidly, escalating, accelerating, rounding the racetrack of stimulant-induced palpitations.  

A slight squeeze began mid-chest, and he breathed deep, deeper, knowing it was a muscular signal for additional oxygen, and he inhaled fully, picturing gas exchanging, diffusion across concentrations.  More oxygen, he thought, myocardial oxygen demand exceeding supply.  Breathe, increase supply, looking to alleviate the occasional twinge he'd felt previous times.  Tachycardic now, he estimated his heart rate at 170, the light burning through his eyelids.  Leaning forward, he could feel pressure from behind his head, neck, pounding unstoppable now in his ears, climbing, too fast, _too bloody fast_.  He felt the room closing in, walls fading into the background and light in his peripheral vision altered, his very breath heavy now.  The alveoli he felt earlier were now collapsing, a mismatch of carbon dioxide, oxyhaemoglobin.  He inhaled again, lungs expanding now, and part of his rapidly-firing brain reminded him to breathe out.  Perhaps this might not have been a good idea, now that it was spiraling out of his control.  He pulled the tourniquet off his arm, closed his eyes, thinking about respiration as both a voluntary and involuntary function, and wondered if his pneumotaxic center would hold out much longer.

The last coherent thought he had was that he might actually have royally fucked up this time.  The twinge beneath his sternum was turning into a spasming squeeze, _shit_!  His brother was going to perhaps finally get his wish.  The rehab that he'd been threatened with previously was probably in his future.  If he bothered to survive this time.

++

"Mr. Holmes?  Mr. Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes."

"Dr. David Young here, I believe we may have spoken some time ago, about your brother, Sherlock Holmes."  Ah, yes, Mycroft could hear the background noise of a busy hospital in his ear, monitors alarming, overhead pages, the urgent voices.  The purpose of the call became clear.  He turned to one of the computers in front of him, opened a tracking app, waited for it to load as the physician was speaking.

"What's he done this time?"

"He is my patient here in the A&E."

 _Oh God, not again._   Mycroft felt the slightest chill, wondered if he'd somehow missed some of Sherlock's early behaviours that indicated higher risk of these things, his danger tells, but he didn't think so.  "Of course."  Sherlock's mobile, flashing as a dot on the map in front of Mycroft, did indeed show his location there at Royal London A&E.

"He's overdosed.  Waiting for toxicology, but consistent with cocaine."

"He will survive?"

"It appears he was found in time.  He is stable for the moment, starting to wake up.  Checking some cardiac enzymes to make sure there was no heart damage."

"When he is medically cleared, he is to be delivered to the No. 11 Clinic.  I will make arrangements."

"Sir, that is very difficult to --"

"They will be expecting him."  The tone even over the phone brooked no further discussion.  

"Yes, sir."

A few calls later, very quickly accomplished, and all was in order.  Mycroft thought with a fleeting measure of satisfaction that Sherlock would be most unhappy at his new, expensive, isolated, and restrictive accommodations.  It bothered him not at all if his brother minded, and he blew out a tense breath.  He'd almost waited too long _again_.  Unacceptable.  While Sherlock saw him only as the enemy, in fact, Mycroft was perhaps his only ally.   _For now_ , he thought, although he was working on changing that rather important detail.  And he was resorting to desperate measures, he knew, in these desperate times.  He only hoped he wasn't too late.

++

The text message to Mycroft's mobile later was brief:   **Rescue accomplished.  One injury as expected**

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles.  It was not lost on him that there had been two different sorts of shootings within the last few hours, connected in ways no one would ever know.   He was quietly pleased with himself and continued to envision success in his dabblings.  An hour or so later, there was an update on the injured team member.   **As instructed, Cpt. J.W. will be sent to 256 Field Hospital in London after stabilising surgery and recovery in Kabul.**

Smug, Mycroft smiled again.  He picked up his mobile, searched for a specific contact.  It was time to at least initiate a conversation before laying the foundations for another encounter, and he dialed Mike Stamford.

A text came through after he'd dismissed Mike.  It was from one of his associates monitoring Sherlock's situation.   **SH has arrived No. 11.  He is most miserable.**

For the second time in the recent hours, Mycroft savored the sensation of the beginnings of victory.  Neither Sherlock, across town, nor Captain Watson, many kilometers away, would have agreed with feeling even remotely victorious.  Not in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft did a TERRIBLE thing. But, in keeping with the series, so did John by fatally shooting the cabbie (really, what motivation could he possibly have legitimately had in doing that?), and I'm still a bit mixed on Sherlock shooting CAM in HLV. So this story is sort of in keeping with the series from both an ethical standpoint and a violent one as well. And who knows, _maybe Mycroft actually did do this?!_
> 
> This tale at least was motivated by brotherly concern where the _ends_ (in Mycroft's mind) justified the _means_. It was still terrible, and I offer apologies on the elder Holmes' behalf.
> 
> I will also apologize, as the tag notes, for the blatant ignorance and abuse of a military happening of which is unlikely.  
> The medications, however, are documented in medical literature. Midazolam, a benzodiazepine, can cause retrograde amnesia in some cases, and is used for this at times, for instance, after a procedure where sedation was not possible or feasible, in order to ease the emotional trauma afterwards. The medication mentioned that was given after that will be addressed in a later chapter, but it is a neurotoxic isoxazole called Muscimol, and is a compound derivative found in a species of mushroom.
> 
> The No. 11 Clinic is a real place that I have no first-hand knowledge about, but looks like a programme that Mycroft would choose. (www.no11clinic.com/)
> 
> Story loosely based on the Old Testament story of what King David did to his mistress Bathsheba's husband Uriah. He ordered his army general, Joab, to advance into battle and then retreat with the intent for Uriah to be murdered by the enemy.
> 
> All mistakes are my own, and I have edited this greatly, so please let me know (nicely) if I missed something blatant. Comments and suggestions are always greatly appreciated. I also promise a happy ending.


	3. Controlled

There was a timid knock at the latched door, followed by the turning of lock tumblers, and then soft clinical-soled shoes.  "I brought you breakfast."  A food and nutrition associate asked for his name and date of birth before coming past the doorway, and he gave it, a soft whisper.  Previously when he'd refused, the belligerence only bought him a closer encounter as the staff member approached and visually checked his magnetic-chipped wristband.  It had, Sherlock realised, been crafted of materials that defied patient removal, and most certainly contained a tracking device.  The first day he'd caught sight of it, he'd briefly considered gnawing off his hand in order to be rid of it, but it had been - intentionally and perhaps wisely - placed on his right, dominant hand, so he'd reconsidered.

A long fingered tremulous hand gestured at the bedside table before the quavering was noticed and the hand quickly came back to the luxury damask coverlet.  "Fine."  The voice was flat and toneless.  God he was so tired, exhausted, even breathing was such bloody effort, and he sighed again, wishing he was back at his flat, free and high and able to enjoy the drug-induced heights before crashing into slumber, sleeping the sleep of the bone-weary.  But his persistent insomnia as he detoxed was expected, the sleep avoiding his every attempt and he clenched his jaw again in frustration.

The tray itself was highly polished bamboo, lightly grained.  The linen mat under the dishes and utensils was finely crafted and starched crisply.  Thin china dishes, chosen surely out of deference to those who had to carry them, were ivory with scalloped, silver edges, sculpted in the same pattern as the limited cutlery which lay wrapped in an ironed napkin.  A thin crystal juice glass and ceramic coffee mug with silver embossed clinic insignia, both covered with lids, occupied the top right corner of the tray.  The food, prepared by skilled and carefully recruited kitchen staff, was only uncovered as the server nodded to the client, who completely and wholly ignored both tray and delivery, so she stepped from the room, closing the door again.  Wondering if he'd finally been trusted with a butter knife today, his tired but still inquisitive eyes flicked over to it.

No knife, not that he couldn't have found at least fourteen readily accessible other means had he wanted to inflict self-harm.  There was an envelope on the tray, and he immediately recognised his brother's aristocratic _obnoxious_ handwriting.  Without a moment's consideration, he upended his orange juice on the unopened envelope, smearing the ink and saturating the contents.  It wasn't enough, so he tucked long fingers at the edge of the wood and angrily launched the tray, flinging it's contents loudly, skittering and shattering across the marble flooring.  One of the larger shards of the broken plate came to rest underneath the luxurious full-grain leather wingback chair.

++

"Dr. Watson?"  The nurse poked her head into the room with an intentionally pasted on grin.  "I have your breakfast.  You ready to get out of bed?"  It wasn't at all that she wasn't glad to care for him, but she could see the stress and discouragement on his face even as he tried to hide it.

"It's John, by the way."  He smiled sadly, sleep having evaded him in the early hours of the night, and then the nightmare when he finally did slumber awakening him in a panic.  "And yes, out of bed."  The block of time he was missing was torturing him, even as he, awake, accepted he would likely never get it back.  He'd flipped TV channels, tried to read a magazine, worked with his limited range of motion as he was able, the pain and tissue damage throbbing particularly strong at night, and waited for daylight.  

John pushed a button on the bed, elevating the head as he twisted his body around, compensating for the shoulder injury and radiating neuropathic pain.  The nurse set the tray down, picked up the sling that he needed while out of bed.  Between the two of them, and some minute adjustments, within a few minutes John was in the chair, his left arm secured by velcro and straps that bound his upper arm securely against his body.

"You ok?"

John met the eyes of the young nurse, and even as he wanted do nothing more than snap at her in frustration, he forced an inhale, exhale, and tried to return her smile, failing rather splendidly.  "I'm good.  Thanks."  He kept all his complaints to himself as he surveyed the tray.  Institutional fare of reheated potatoes, a few strips of greasy bacon, and a stack of pancakes, likely lukewarm and slightly rubbery if history was any indication.  Food at the front was much better than this, and he agreed with that policy that the soldiers there deserved the better fare, even as his stomach protested.  He picked up a fork, knowing that to heal well required adequate nutrition.  He was due to be shipped back to London in a few days for more rehab.  And, his doctor informed him yesterday, some psychotherapy might not be a bad idea.  While he chafed at the comment, he acknowledged, deep down, that he probably needed it.

The tray sat partially finished, the breakfast he'd been able to choke down sitting in what felt like a congealed mass in his gut beneath his hospital issued pyjamas.  He leaned his head back against the high-backed vinyl chair, closed his eyes, exhausted, swallowing hard and hoping the nausea would pass.  He could, he knew, only partially blame the food for that.  It was in this position that his surgeon found him on morning rounds.

"John?"

He'd only just barely nodded off, but even so, the sound startled him.  He opened his eyes, startled, bolting forward in the chair, his muscles tensed in alarm and a soft cry coming from his throat as he leaned forward.  Seeing Tom, his surgeon, and perceiving too late there was actually no threat in his room or to his person, he leaned back slowly and willed the catecholamine surge to fade.

"Sorry."  He perched on the metal folding chair opposite John.  "Still not sleeping?  At night, I mean."

Shrugging awkwardly with only one shoulder, John frowned a bit, his breath catching as he forced an exhale, inhale, using biofeedback in effort to physiologically slow his heart rate, ease the panic.  "Eh, I try.  Apparently the chair might be a better option than the bed," he tried to quip as Tom just looked on at him.

"You want something?  There are some pretty effective sleep aids you could try."  John was shaking his head.  "Maybe a benzo --"

" _No_.  No thanks."  John let his eyes meet Tom's with serious intent.  He was unable to put into words the rising stress and anxiety he felt at times when he considered himself alone.  The past few nights he'd gotten up to open the door to the ward, needing the noise filtering in even if it was disruptive.  Admittedly, some of the noise during the night was fear provoking - moaning, groaning, dreaming, cries of pain from the other rooms.  "Maybe...?" and John paused, his eyes flicking over to the empty bed that had been unoccupied since he'd arrived.

"We're trying to keep that empty for you.  Having a roommate would almost guarantee you'd never sleep."

John swallowed, considering that maybe he was right, and a bit embarrassed to admit the depth of his fear.  Explaining, even to himself, this irrational worry of being isolated, alone, abandoned, made no sense.  He shrugged as Tom sat quietly and unrushed next to John.

Their eyes held, and John's mind frantically whirled at the evoked emotions.  It had been Tom there when he'd finally awakened in Kabul after surgery.  Matter of factly, Tom had been the one to tell him about the extent of the damage.  John had simply stared as his mind had scrambled at the missing information, as he'd been convinced he was inconceivably unaware of something big that had happened, something that was wrong.  It was a niggling thought that had taken root that he'd done something, seen something, experienced something mission critical - something had gone awry, something was amiss, and was also most assuredly gone from his consciousness.  He didn't like - _hated_ , actually - not knowing.

The story in John's medical record was brief, found on the ground unconscious, discovered and carried to safety by soldiers not from his own unit, been stabilised with IV fluids, evac'ed to an aid station and then choppered to Kabul.  He'd been bandaged, hydrated, given pain medications when he'd moaned, taken directly to the operating room.  Tom had reviewed this with him, several times in fact, then finally given him the paper records so he could see for himself.  Because something didn't add up for John, and he wasn't sure that his memory could be trusted even when snippets came to him, but still nothing added up.  Kindly, Tom had told him that the mind was powerful enough to block things as a coping mechanism, that it might not ever come back.  If John heard the phrase 'one day at a time' ever again, he thought, it would be too soon.  God he _hated_ hearing it.

And when Tom had advised him that his surgical career was going to be one of the "let's wait and see how you heal" scenarios, both John and Tom had looked down at John's fingers as he wriggled them from the confines of the sling.  

Tom performed a brief, targeted assessment, evaluating wound healing, John's color and movement of his affected arm.  They both puzzled over the continuing pain in his leg even as there had been no visible injury, no damage on the imaging they'd obtained.  From their perspectives from either end of the bed - Tom the doctor, John the patient - things were going well and Tom attempted to convey that John should expect almost full recovery, but the reassurance trailed off as John shook his head sadly.

The first two fingers of his left hand, John had confessed then, were not only sluggish to move, they were unfortunately, also quite without sensation.

 ++

Ella Thompson opened the file on the next patient due in.  Captain John Watson, invalided home from the army, now retired.  She smiled as she considered the gentle demeanor of the man due to arrive shortly, then her expression saddened at some of her notes from last session, things John had said that she'd quoted.

_...tired... having trouble sleeping... need to find a reason to move forward... I'm just so tired... the pain keeps me wondering... I can't recall being injured, but something was definitely wrong...  I remember there were voices... I'm having such a hard time letting this go...  I should call my sister Harry, but I find I just don't care...  nothing ever happens to me now_

She flipped through some of the treatment plan discussions, wondering if John had followed through on her recommendation.  There was more to the folder than she recalled, and she turned to the end of the file.   A premium, coated sheet of paper had been added to John Watson's file, thick white parchment containing a typewritten note.  The folders were kept locked, and there was no one else who could have accessed them, so she was already puzzled.  The reception clerk had already left for the day, but Ella was pretty certain she would have no further information anyway.  Her eyes scanned the page quickly, knowing John's arrival was imminent.  Her eyes took in the gist of the message asking for a progress update.  

There were footsteps in the hall, halting ones alternating with the uneven tread.  Heart pounding and curiously unsettled, she closed the file, knowing that John had arrived.  If history repeated, he would have his cane in one hand, likely tea in the other.  Deliberately, she pushed the note from her mind as he entered her office, a pasted smile on his face.  Her own smile was genuine as she considered him, focusing on his efforts to please, at how he was simply not giving up despite hard times.

At the end of the session, Ella paused to make a few notes:   _Trust issues remain.  Refuses to journal.  Adjusting slowly.  Denies overwhelming despair.  Still has his service weapon - contract reiterated that he is to call if he feels he is at risk for impulsive or self-destructive behaviour._

The last page of the file, the disposition page, had a post it affixed, and now that she was alone without interruption, she opened it tentatively.  The header was simply John's full name and date of birth.  She felt her breath catch as she stared at the words:   _You will call with an update on Capt. Watson at conclusion of today's appointment.  I know about Jeremy._  There was a phone number to call, and Ella, with dry mouth and pounding heart, rang.  She would absolutely not be providing a progress update, but was intrigued at the nature of the request, particularly the personal sentence.  

The voice that answered, said quickly, "Ah, Ms. Thompson, so good of you to call."  A silence hung heavy on the line, and Ella waited, unwilling to initiate the conversation that she already knew she was dreading.  "And how is your son Jeremy these days?"

"Who is this?"  She sat taller, as if that would help, to offset the tremor in her voice.

Silence was all Ella got at the other end of the line.

"I'm hanging up if you don't tell me who you are and what you want."

"Ah, direct.   _Bravo._  Tell me, how are Dr. Watson's sessions coming along?"

"That's privileged information.  None of your business."

"Let's just say that I'm an interested party."

"I don't care if you're the King of England, I'm not telling you."

There was a pause.  "And how did you say Jeremy is doing, again?"

Ella seethed, considering the risk and the implied threat and the fact that Jeremy's health needs were very real and tenuous.  His medications were special-ordered abroad and expensive enough that she was aware of the fact that she might need to move out of London to afford his continuing specialist care and prescriptions.  Professional anger and indignation at being violated, her private office and her confidential patient files, and worst of all, the privacy of her son.  These morphed quickly into the nigglings of fear at the intensity of the question posed to her.  She felt the tinglings of catecholamines, followed by a nauseous dread that she was about to be flayed.  Sacrificed.  Burned at the stake.

"How about I assure you that, as an interested party in John Watson's recovery, I have no intent to harm either of you.  In fact, I have some pharmaceutical connections that may interest you.  Interest you personally, if I am clear, for Jeremy's benefit."  Ella kept quiet, feeling every bit ethically conflicted as the situation demanded.  "I would appreciate a brief update as to John Watson's state of mind, in exchange for what you can expect as payment in full for the next complete phase of Jeremy's medications."

Ella swallowed.

"I appreciate your commitment to your patients, but let me assure you, I mean no harm, and will not disclose anything about your assistance.  Captain Watson is being considered for an assignment of utmost importance, and my concern for him is personal in nature."  The voice sought to assure her, and Ella swallowed as her eyes flicked to Jeremy's framed photo on her desk, from months prior when he'd been healthy and smiling.  "I am, however, Ms. Thompson, in quite a position to help you."

++

Sherlock was crafting horrid noises on his violin.  In the central room of Mycroft's expansive home with a network of hallways and vaulted ceilings that came together over where he stood, the acoustics of the room would have been painful even to himself if it wasn't so bloody intentional.  The sun was barely thinking about making an appearance, and he knew his brother would still be trying to sleep.  In his satin pyjamas and satin sheets and probably a satin sleep mask, the poncy git.  He found an arpeggio that allowed for the slightest change in high pitched warble echoing off the highest notes he could play loudly, then started low again.  He was just about to launch into the Mozart piece that had been butchered worldwide, " _Ah vous dirai-ji, Maman_ " when he heard the distant shut of a door and heavy footsteps.  Heavier than they'd been, he thought with a wry grin, stress eating again, perhaps.  Or at the very least, he thought with a grin, _very annoyed_.

Sherlock put his heels together as Mycroft came into view, standing regally, then bowing low and gesturing wide with instrument and bow.  "Good morning, brother mine," he said mockingly.

"Are you impaired?"

"Of course not."

"I would be delighted to say that you were and have you committed again, if you do not _cease this at once_."

"I want to go to Lake Zurich, this time.  To Kusnacht Practice."  Sherlock had just named the most exclusive - and expensive - retreat center in Europe, perhaps in the world.

"What?"

"I'm bored here."  He angled the bow across the strings, hissing and grating loudly enough that Mycroft's usual stone face tightened in pain on one side, one eye narrowing in discomfort and his head angling as if tilting would cut down on the obnoxious sound waves.

"Sherlock."  Mycroft's expression was strategically playful, and it was not missed by his brother.  "You could get a job."

"A _job.  No."_  He sneered his distaste.  "I could just move out."

"With what money, Sherlock.  Do not think for one minute that I am authorising any funding unless you have appropriate supervision."  Mycroft watched Sherlock's jaws clench, the typical reaction when he skirted the discussions they'd had previously about Mycroft's requirement that Sherlock not live alone, to find a suitable flatmate.  The jaws clenched again as Sherlock warred with himself about asking Mycroft for help.  He just couldn't bring himself to do it.  "Feel free to continue your grand concerto, please.  I find I will be departing for work a bit earlier than expected, but please do continue to serenade my staff."  Mycroft held his self-satisfied smirk until he was well out of view of Sherlock.

++

A few days after her anonymous phone conversation, Ella had been notified by post that Jeremy's situation with the next phase of medications had been fully funded, and when Captain Watson's next appointment time arrived, Ella had an agenda, a plan to move John to action, some questions that would give her peace of mind about some future endeavors.  The session was still mildly subdued, but he responded favourably to her words of affirmation and encouragement.  She also discussed the importance of journaling, of writing down his thoughts and reactions.  Since he'd been reluctant to do actual writing with pen to paper, she suggested an on-line option, a blog.  John seemed reluctantly agreeable to at least considering it, and she handed him an instruction sheet for setting up a name and account of his own.  As the visit concluded, Ella sent off the text as directed.   **I believe he is ready.**

There was an almost immediate ellipsis, and then **Thank you.  Well done.**

++

Mycroft stared at the phone, then smiled again to himself, a smile of satisfaction and anticipation.  It galled him when he thought about the timing, how close they'd come to finally getting a grip, so to speak, on John Watson at the same time Sherlock was found with a hypodermic in his arm and drool on his chin.   _How utterly galling_.  Entirely too close for comfort, and he'd circled the wagons in order to decrease the possibility of further surprises.  He opened his contact list, found Stamford, Mike from the list, and sent him the message, **It's a go.**   **At your earliest convenience, then.**

From a distance, John Watson had been a bit harder to read than Mycroft had been expecting.  He was a solid and unobtrusive man on the outside, but still waters that ran very deep, judging by the interactions he'd had with his surgeons and a few of the staff Mycroft had access to in the military hospital from which he'd recently transferred.  Mycroft had arranged for John's bedsit to be on the outskirts of town, on a street that was as boring as he could find.  It hadn't taken much influencing to locate the few neighbours that John may have had something of a pleasant conversation with and manipulate a few days' holiday in order to prevent anything remotely pleasant or appealing about his new community.  Nothing to chance, Mycroft reminded himself again, and looked at the folder he'd compiled on a surgery not far from Bart's.  He jotted a few notes about one Sarah Sawyer and set a minion to doing some research on both her and the practice.  A few phone calls would ensure that the net around John Watson was closing carefully and would allow no variable to thwart him as much as he could control. 

The next phone call was to a Mrs. Martha Hudson, the owner of a nicely located central London building, with a cafe on street level and a flat for rent above her own.  He explained his position, that of a concerned elder brother, and assured the lovely woman that he would keep tabs on her new potential tenant in exchange for periodic access to the flat before his brother and flatmate moved in.  The new flatmate, Mycroft assured her, was a safe man, a recently discharged army doctor, a dependable and reliable man.  The flatmate would be helping, along with her own personal assistance and Mycroft's, to keep one Sherlock Holmes walking the narrow path of good behaviour.  What Mycroft didn't say was that, while John Watson's tastes might have run toward vanilla, he was something of an unknown, a force to be reckoned with, and Mycroft was done being caught unawares.  

He offered thrice the requested security deposit, and, before hanging up, he'd arranged for a quick tour so that the painters would be able to spruce up the place free of charge.  Ecstatic, she readily agreed to that, thrilled at the thought of new tenants and new paint throughout.  She didn't suspect in the least that the painters would also be installing state-of-the-art hidden security cameras throughout the flat.  Mycroft had only hedged a few moments before deciding not to install anything in either bedroom.  Knowing his brother, if there were things going on, it would be unlikely that he would be conventionally confined to the bedroom.  Or bedrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to meet in this chapter but apparently had other plans. Stay tuned! It's gearing up to be great fun!
> 
> Feedback of any type is great fun for me, something that helps the next chapter formulate to finished product. Please let me know if you have suggestions or comments!


	4. Trusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few sentences in the beginning mentioning a few parallel events from ASiP... and then John and Sherlock begin to get better ... *ahem* ... acquainted.

A handful of days later, at the conclusion of a crazy chase through London, a vagrant pink suitcase, and a dinner at Angelo's, Sherlock sat in the rear bay of an ambulance. A blanket was thrown about his back while Lestrade paid him close attention, asking questions and taking notes of Sherlock's likely correct assumptions. John stood, unnoticed at first in the crowd, listening to Sherlock describe the shooter in frighteningly accurate terms, and when the word military came from his mouth and he spied John in the crowd behind police lines, John's deliberate looking away would have been unremarkable except that Sherlock could see the muscles of his jaw tense. He backpedaled, changed his story then, claiming shock and rambling about other details and his obvious unbelievability.

Earlier, John had arrived on scene, scrambling about until he finally had located the stand-off, the coin toss, the fatal challenge, the one on one chess move. Through the tall windows overseeing the room, Sherlock and the cabbie seated across from each other at the table, two clear bottles between them, and John sensed, knew, intuited the danger, the risk, the calamity at hand. His military training, the action after quick deliberation without much conscious awareness, the decision made split-second, his weapon raised, the shot taken, the sprinting from the scene, taking cover a few blocks away as, eventually, the Met and ambulance personnel arrived. John hovered, mostly invisibly, in the crowd, waiting. The cabbie who had died of a mysterious sniper shot had been zipped into a body bag and carted off to the morgue, while DI Lestrade and a few of his staff milled about looking for clues there at the scene.

By the time Sherlock had reminded him ridding himself of the possibility of powder burns, he'd long since taken care of it. Hands had been cleaned, hung relaxed at his side as he waited for Sherlock in the periphery of the crowd. His hands hadn't shaken since laying on the sand under cover of trees there in Afghanistan, although John would not have been able to recall that detail. But a rookie to combat, John Watson was not.

++

The play over John Watson's face, Mycroft decided, was a sight to behold, a curiosity, the emotion just barely visible and contained as John took note of the dynamics in play between the brothers. Later, out of their hearing, Mycroft had turned to Anthea, "He could be the making of my brother - or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active." In her typical distractedness, she had been more focused on her mobile, and when he clarified, he turned then to watch them walking away.  They were shoulder to shoulder, ignoring everything else in the vicinity, paying attention only to their conversation. And, Mycroft noted with a pleased curiosity, they were _giggling_. He shook his head as he watched their proximity to each other, the way Sherlock dipped his head to ensure John could hear him, the intimacy of their interaction. It might actually, he thought to himself, despite Sherlock's typical snarkiness and resistance to anything remotely beneficial, be working.  He nodded to himself, not wishing to get ahead of himself, but, for once, cautiously optimistic about events surrounding his brother.

++

"So that was your brother. Why was he even there?" John asked. "To see if you were okay?"

"I have no idea why he does anything. Most often, he's motivated by the desire for food. Or to annoy me."

"Meddlesome, eh?  Probably because he knows it irks you.  You put on a nice show for him, by the way." John said as Sherlock tossed his ridiculous, never-actually-needed shock blanket into the open window of a vehicle they walked past.

Sherlock snorted indignantly, hearing the peculiarity of someone bold enough to stand up to him and feeling the surprise of tolerating it.  He would analyze that later.

"By the way, that was about the stupidest thing I've ever _almost_ witnessed, Sherlock."

"What was?" The genuinely confused expression on Sherlock's face would have almost been comical except that John needed to take him to task for his actions.

"What kind of an idiot are you?" John slowed his steps as Sherlock focused on John's face, slowing down as well. The expression on Sherlock's face would have been humorous had John not been so annoyed. Apparently the detective with few inhibitions did not regularly get called an idiot, John noted, deciding it was high time, the bloody tosser. He snarled, "That was dangerous. A terribly, unnecessary dangerous stunt."

They had both stopped, and for a moment, Sherlock found himself experiencing the hot temper of the person he'd invited to join him as a flatmate. "I was never in any danger."

"Complete and utter bullshit.  You're a bloody danger to yourself.  What is the matter with you?" When Sherlock stood for a few seconds, answering John by not actually answering, and then moved as if they were going to keep walking, John reached out a firm hand, wrapped his fingers tightly around Sherlock's bicep through his coat that billowed as traffic passed them there on the kerb.  It was a don't-mess-with-me, pay-attention- _now_ grip and stopped him from avoiding both the harsh glare and the question. "Do you have no value on your own life? Any protective inhibitions at all?"

"Protective inhibitions." Sherlock tried out the phrase with a curious and almost defiant curl of his lips.  It was a surprising realisation that John truly was upset with him, and while Sherlock was quite used to people being upset with him, this was different.  This was actually based on perhaps a genuine concern, and Sherlock found that unsettling.  "Don't _you_ be an idiot.  I was fine."  The skeptical nature of John's glance at him seemed to make him defensive.  "And I may remind you, _Captain_ , that I'm not the one who pulled a trigger tonight."

"Not particularly risky from my perspective.  I said it earlier, you risk your _life_ to prove you're clever." John eyeballed him then, oddly both annoyed and impressed at the same time. "You really shouldn't do shit like that. Who are you trying to impress?" John saw an open wound, tossed a bit of salt in it. " _Your brother_ , perchance?"  It would never be said that John Watson didn't know what buttons to push if he was trying to rile someone up.

"God, no." He harrumphed in a disdainful manner, decided he'd had enough of the interrogation as well as standing still and pulled out of John's hold. "Mycroft would only notice long enough to say I had it coming, or that this proved him right."

"Then disprove him. And... I mean, as a flatmate, I think I'll be mighty ticked if you leave me with the full balance of the flat-share rental." John fell into step with him, his gait long, Sherlock's slightly attenuated. "Be careful. Consider perhaps learning self-preservation skills, if you must."  When he was met with silence, John continued, "You must already know my army pension is not going to cut it in central London."

"Perhaps you could simply accompany me then. Keep me right."

"I'm not your keeper."

Sherlock snorted in laughter.  "May I point out to you that Mrs. Hudson said exactly that, although substituting the word _house_ keeper, earlier.  And we both observed her doing exactly that.  So you may protest, as long as you perform the task anyway."

"I think I've had quite enough of that already."

"I warned you it was dangerous, and here you are.   _Still_.  You did not feel particularly warned into avoiding a possibly dangerous situation, John." Sherlock opened the door of the eatery, strolled through it, clearly expecting John to follow.  Walking through the door at that moment in the conversation was considerably more than just entry into a room.  It was a deciding point, a choice, and they both knew it.

They chose a corner table, then, ordered dim sum, and conversation was somewhat light and trivial until their legs brushed haphazardly under the table. "Oh, pardon," he said even as Sherlock caught his calf between his own two ankles. His head tilted, realising Sherlock was in his personal space and that there was no way in hell it was accidental. He lowered his voice. "What are you about, mate?"

"Problem?" There was quite a moment that hung there over the table, John's dark eyes staring into Sherlock's amused pale eyes, sparkling with the thrill of confrontation.  The small smile under angled cheekbones conveyed much more than simply enjoyment, but heat and charm and magnetic energy. The singular word and it's delivery - a very clearly challenging nonverbal  _I Dare You_ \- coupled with the clear desire plain on Sherlock's face was something of a surprise to John.  And rather pleasant heat suffusing through his chest, and he cleared his throat quietly even as Sherlock chuckled as he observed John's mild uncertain discomfort.

"You said --" John forced himself not to wrench his leg free, let it lay there, feeling the firm pressure of warm sock-garbed limbs on either side of his leg. "At Angelo's, I thought you said you were married to your work."

"Perhaps it was a red herring."

"You lied."

"I was seeking information.  Creatively." The smile on John's face broadened as he could see Sherlock's engaged attention. "How much do you actually believe anything I say?"

"I may need to reconsider much of it, now that I'm on to you."   The play on words left them both smiling a bit.  Wriggling his foot in between Sherlock's and feeling the warmth of their proximity, John allowed himself to relax and enjoy.  He gestured through the table toward their shoes with his chopsticks. "That's kind of nice."

"You didn't answer my question." Sherlock had long since stopped eating, chopsticks casually discarded on the edge of the plate.  But then he picked one up, toyed with it, while John backpedaled through the conversation. " _Problem_?" he asked again, reminding.

"Not conceptually," John answered, feeling the rub of Sherlock's ankles connecting in a strangely direct line from his own leg to the pit of his belly, lower. "Perhaps not a wealth of experience in that area." He considered that, had he stayed in the Army, he may eventually have acted on some of the flirtatious relationships that had developed a few times. Nothing had transpired, but it might have, given the right circumstance and person. The one he'd had an interest in, there at the end, had obviously been cut short with his injury, and it didn't matter to John at all now.  And now, the one he had an interest in, perhaps anyway, was seated directly across from him. He was intriguing and, given the direction his eyes roved, pausing either on chest, or lips, or twinkling back at John, apparently interested in more as well.  Desire was building, coiling and tightening in his gut, and John could feel a keen sense of pleasure at being the center of Sherlock's attention. Riveting eyes that seemed to see it all were still focused on him, intuitive, searching, accepting.

"I thought as much."

"Problem?" John asked, confident that he at least had an inkling of how things worked, as he listened and observed plenty of army experience and had treated a few misadventures gone bad. When Sherlock shook his head just a bit, John offered his one-sided smile. "You?" John pointed the question back at Sherlock, knowing he was understanding what he was asking. The random glances, smiles, eye contact, spoke volumes without speaking the actual question all the way.

"A few encounters." Sherlock recalled his teacher, forced his mind off the unpleasantness of Victor, knew that John Watson was very different than either. He was already looking forward to it. "I think between the two of us, we can figure it out." Sherlock gauged John's reaction to that. "Neither of us being averse to a bit of adventure. And danger, apparently."

"Eventually.  There's no rush."

"Well, other than to alleviate boredom."

John grinned at that, didn't answer directly right away, but already getting the sense that a bored Sherlock might be perilous.  He shifted his plate in front of him, changed his grip on the utensils he was using mostly to rearrange things. The shoulder was paining today, aggravated a little by the fine motor muscles that the use of chopsticks demanded, not to mention discharging a weapon for the first time in quite a while.  John made the association that his dominant arm was still rather damaged just from the simple act of eating, the emotional pain of that link also painful and disheartening. It must have showed.

"So, a gun shot wound?"

John felt his heart pound, just at the thought of retelling the story, pursed his lips, kept quiet.

"You don't want to talk about it."  John looked away when Sherlock continued.  "It's fine."

He was not about to run away from the question, and there was no reason to be anything other than direct.  He expected it from Sherlock, as well, so he may as well be up front too. "Out on a rescue, looking for wounded. Last thing I remember was the team dividing into three groups, canvassing an area.  I woke up, a hot mess, in a hospital ready for surgery."

"Head injury?"

"Why do you ask, do I act head injured?" He lightened the mood, a bit of a smirk.

"Of course not.  Although there would be those who question your judgment at the company you're keeping."  They shared a grin at that, and John found himself reminded of Sherlock's brother and wishing he'd known who he'd been dealing with from the outset.  "But how else do you account for the amnesia?"

"I know, it's unusual. I don't account for it. I can't. I just ... don't bloody remember." Before he grew pointlessly frustrated, John realised a change of topic was indicated. "Hit in actually a good spot at least," and John rubbed his hand self-consciously over the area high on his shoulder, "didn't drop a lung and didn't bleed to death. Couldn't have been unattended long, another unit found me, patched me up, and off I went to a field hospital.  My team got word shortly after that, I guess, that the mission was canceled, bad intell, apparently."

"Shot through?"

"Yes, entry and exit damage. Unfortunately my dominant arm, performing surgery again is going to be unlikely, I guess at this point." Reflexively, with his thumb John rubbed the calloused fingers of his left hand, acutely aware of the deadened areas. "Numb," he volunteered when Sherlock's eyes saw, narrowed, and he gestured for more information.

"Seeing a physiotherapist?"

"And a regular therapist, too, as you already figured out. The memory loss is troublesome, moreso than the physical losses, I just feel like something's missing." The serious turn of conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the cheque, and Sherlock laid down a credit card on it.  John glanced at the card name, Mycroft Holmes. "Should I say thank you to your brother next time he ushers me rudely into a car?"

"He's a nightmare. Ignore him. He has no business with me, or with us." They rose, meal over, and Sherlock snickered a bit when John remembered his cane and then remembered it had been discarded earlier. "But perhaps don't get into a strange car again anytime soon."

"Well, should it come up, thank you, or _him_ , for dinner."  John kept an eye on him, decided to address the more pressing matter. "You know, it might not be wise for two blokes with an affinity for danger to share a flat, perhaps."

"That is completely up to you. I can promise you, John," Sherlock's voice lowered suggestively, "that if you are willing, I can alleviate boredom."  The last word was enunciated, referring to Sherlock's earlier statement.

"I shudder to think." The cool air as they stood on the kerb felt good, and John stretched carefully to alleviate stiffness on his non-injured side. "My therapist says I have trust issues. Your brother told me the same thing earlier tonight." John smirked. "If you would like to make it a trifecta, feel free to tell me the same thing." John smiled, laughing briefly to himself as Sherlock signaled for a cab and one appeared. He missed the puzzled look of consideration that Sherlock affected at the comment about his trust issues.

"I find redundancy unnecessary." Something in Sherlock's tone, agreement perhaps, had John angling to meet the gaze full on. Steady blue eyes, serious and calculating, were watching him.

John remembered what Donovan had said earlier, that Sherlock apparently had issues of his own, decided to call him on his earlier behaviour. "Consider that a person with trust issues," and he paused there emphasising the words, making sure Sherlock made the connection, "is unlikely to be happy to find himself invited along to a crime scene and then abandoned there without a word."

"Your therapist would be unlikely to recommend that you become flatmates with a virtual stranger."  The exchanged glances in the back of the cab.  "I might be a bad influence on you."

"Funny you say that, she called me while I was en route to find you tonight. I may have mentioned it to her."  

++

**Please contact John Watson.**

**Why?** When there was no answer over a few minutes, Ella sent another text.   **Is he in danger?**

**He is fine, contemplating a change of residence.**

**I fail to see what that has to do with me.**

**It is in his best interest to proceed with this change of address.**

Ella looked over at Jeremy, considering the strides he had made, the progress and emotional well-being he was enjoying.  She briefly considered her bank account, too, and sighed.  While there was no implied statements at all, she could possibly still at least touch base with her client without arousing suspicion.  **I have no control over him or his decision.**

**He appreciates your wise counsel.**

**Please leave me alone.**

**It's a simple, friendly phone call.**

**He's a good man, and I don't trust you.**

**I hear Jeremy is doing much better.**

Ella could feel a twinge of nausea at the comment, wondering if she had crossed a line that would haunt her, and her son, for all her remaining days.  _Rock_ , she thought, _meet hard place_.  After a few deliberative moments, she responded. **I'll consider it.**

When Ella hung up the phone much later, she thought about making contact, responding that she had done as requested, but decided against it.  It would have ended up being unnecessary, as subsequently that evening, another text came through, **Thank you for your invaluable assistance.  This will be my last contact with you.**

++

Sherlock was waiting for John to relate what his therapist might have advised.  "And?"

"She thought it might be beneficial." John watched the blocks and buildings out the window for a few, then continued, "Even with a high functioning sociopath," this he punctuated the dubious label with air quotes and heard Sherlock's burst of disgruntled air as he disagreed, "It's a hell of a lot better than keeping my own company, to be sure." He asked the cabbie to take him to his own bedsit. "I have only a few boxes to collect and will be right along."

"Fine. I'll wait."

"Better, you'll _help_."  When Sherlock glanced at him sharply as if to protest, John shrugged his stiff shoulder, and added, "I think you owe me a heavy box or two."

++

It had actually been a quick feat to carry John's belongings in to the flat, up the steps, and for them both to flit awkwardly about the room for a few minutes until the unease settled down to tolerable enough for them to decide on tea and crap telly. The unfortunate part of the decision ended in a quick searching of the kitchen only to be unable to locate any type of tea - bagged, loose, or bulk. John sighed loudly as Sherlock shrugged and made a face. It was John who ended up opting to run down the street to the Tesco. He returned with more than one variety, along with milk, and a few shopping items that would hopefully prevent a return trip for the next few days.

Sherlock barely looked up as John entered, bags in hand, but once his back was turned toward Sherlock, John could feel eyes on him as he put things away in the kitchen. His army mug was right where he'd left it, on the counter, and the back of his neck prickled as he turned on the kettle.

"Sure, tea would be great," Sherlock said as he listened to John in the kitchen. A one-sided smirk came to his face as he heard another mug be set down on the worktop. "Sugar, no milk." After that comment, there was a lengthy silence, and Sherlock was watching the kitchen when John came into his line of sight, studying him.  Both hands were full, and he set one mug in front of Sherlock.  There was a bit of an uncomfortable soundless moment, drawn out.

John cleared his throat, choosing to be entertained rather than affronted.  "I could educate you, perhaps, on the proper uses of the words please and thank you."

The gaze connection, then, held for a few moments until Sherlock could not contain the slight purse of his lips, unable to hide his amusement any longer. John saw it, smiled back, just briefly. "That won't be necessary," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to his mobile.

John took the chair opposite him, attempting to settle in, absorb the relaxed air of the flat.  The tea seemed a perfect ending to a rather eventful, and exciting, day. He sipped, leaned his head back, let his eyes shut.  He thought about counting the number of different locations he'd slept in over the past six weeks, decided it would likely be counterproductive.  There was something warm and welcoming there on Baker Street, and John wondered which influence was stronger - the actual flat, or the new flatmate.  Before he could quantify either, something interrupted his thoughts.

"I am sorry, John," the halting voice began, "about leaving you earlier." Turning to look at Sherlock, John angled his head, allowing that to serve as acknowledgement. "I would prefer that you save your distrust of society for everyone else." A bit of a chuckle then, as Sherlock was apparently not done. "Mycroft should head the list. Consider yourself warned."

"Guess you'd better prove yourself trustworthy, then." Pointedly, John considered his mobile for the time, then stood, tea in hand, "I'm off to bed, then, I think."

Sherlock rose, clearly with something additional he wanted to say, and they stood there a few feet apart. "I could educate you, perhaps, on proper responses when someone apologises to you."  There was quite an attitude of confrontation in the delivery tone.  "I can assure, it will not be a frequent occurrence coming from me."

A bubble of laughter erupted, then, and John grinned. "You're right, bad form of me. Apology accepted."  He carried his and Sherlock's empty mugs to the kitchen, then found himself face to face with Sherlock, standing in front of him.  They were both alert and very aware of each other.

The studious expression was back on Sherlock's face, and he looked at John's expression, his stance, body language as he stared, then began a slow perusal, noting outdated button-up shirt, loose fitting denims - still hadn't regained muscle mass from weight loss after his injury - boots. The awkwardness had returned in spades, with both of them hyperaware of the other. John stood still, arms relaxed as Sherlock, arms clasped behind him, stepped in a slow circle around him. Without conscious thought, John's posture straightened, shoulders back, chest front, chin up, eyes forward, reflexive muscle memory from military inspections. He felt Sherlock's finger land on his bicep, then trace warmly along the broad expanse between his shoulders, cross over his other bicep, and then Sherlock was back in his peripheral vision. It was a hard habit to break, that he didn't have to ignore him, eyes front, and he looked across briefly to find Sherlock not watching John's body, but searching his face. Their eyes lingered, the warm fingertip contact nearly electrifying even through a layer of clothing, everything about John's body keenly alerted to the position of Sherlock's.  The path Sherlock's fingertip had brushed, an orbit around John's upper body, seemed to linger and resonate through his flesh even as it was territorial.  Slowly, his finger continued it's exploratory trail across John's pectoral muscle to the line of buttons, and they both could feel heartrate acceleration. Despite being slightly uncomfortable, he forced his eyes to remain on Sherlock's face, standing still and watching him, feeling the approval emanating from his leisurely studying. They were close, definitely invading each other's personal boundaries. Sherlock's mouth was close, slightly parted, and John watched him lick his lips briefly in a struggle with himself, trying to decide what to do, attempt to deduce what John might be expecting. Or at least be amenable to.

"Problem?" John asked, quietly, and when no answer or response was forthcoming, he slid a strong hand up along Sherlock's jawline, then let his fingers slide into the dark curls.  Gentle pressure behind Sherlock's ear certainly indicated what he was after, and Sherlock seemed more-than willing, bending his head down to bring their lips together for the first time. It was soft, dry, their breath mingling and then John noticed that both of their hands had moved, with Sherlock's palm placed flat against John's tightened pectoral muscle, brushing over John's nipple and eliciting a throaty sound that he would have prevented had he been aware it was coming. His hand continued behind Sherlock's head, his other behind Sherlock's back, drawing them together and adjusting the angle. He felt Sherlock's mouth part, tongue slipping out, testing, tasting, and then the kiss deepened.

Hungry lips, the addition of tongue, hot breath exchanged precipitated the arching of the muscled body pressed against the taller, leaner one.  Sherlock's arm snaked around John's waist, intending, John was sure, on pulling pelvises together, on discovering length and thickness of each other without the obvious addition of a questioning hand, at least not yet.  

John recalled telling Ella that nothing had been happening in his life, lately, and much of him could just have thrown caution to the wind right then, instigated taking this to the bedroom, or the couch, or... for pity's sake, he was even thinking up against the wall would have suited fine.  There was a hum from beneath Sherlock's sternum, one that certainly conveyed there would have been no resistance to John's suggestion.  He felt his shoulders tighten in resolve and could sense the moment Sherlock became aware of that.

"We probably shouldn't," John offered, and felt Sherlock's hand move to his other nipple, just tweaking slightly. "Just moving in and all."

"Of course we shouldn't," Sherlock said, confrontationally, as if stating the obvious and having already decided he didn't care.

John pushed his hand away, took a deep breath, trying to calm the hardness between his legs and keep his mind in control as opposed to his body. "Not tonight. Seriously, let's not muck this up. I have no wish to cart my stuff back across town."

"No need. We're both adults here, it's not like it signifies anything other than a good, healthy appetite for --"

"Good night," John said firmly, cutting him off before he could finish. He turned on his heel before he gave in to his baser desires and began ripping off clothing, his, Sherlock's, didn't matter. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on the back of his head as he climbed the stairs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, some things begin to happen that arouse a few suspicions in Sherlock's mind. This would have been continued immediately but the chapter turned into a beast and demanded to be split.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	5. Almost Unveiled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the first night on Baker Street to a peculiar encounter with the Holmes brothers and Dr. Watson.

John had tossed, turned, dozed, nodded off, dreamed, and awakened in a panic in the wee hours.  He tossed off the duvet, sitting up abruptly in an attempt to stave off the racing emotional response to whatever it had been that he'd dreamt about.   _Fucking dream.  Again._  His breath, an outward rush of air through pursed lips, sounded loud in the room, and he could feel the remaining nigglings of discomfort being by himself.  It had, however, been much worse in his bedsit, with bland neighbours and very few sounds of life.  He considered the telly, thought about going downstairs to watch, even just to be closer to the late-night sounds on this, his first night in the new flat on Baker Street.  Mostly, he should have expected a middle of the night awakening, and truthfully was surprised he'd fallen asleep readily in the first place, particularly with the dynamics with his new flatmate.  His new, rather _appealing_ flatmate. His skin was slightly moist as he stood up, but his anxiety lessened as he took a few deep breaths, found a pair of socks, and decided to at least get out of the confined feeling of the bedroom.  He was surprised, when he wandered down the steps, that Sherlock still awake.  The laptop was open, a few books also, and he barely looked to up acknowledge John's presence.  

Sherlock finally consulted the time.  "Bit early to be up for the day."

"No kidding."  John settled gingerly into a chair there in the sitting room, awkward and ill-at-ease.  "For you, too, though, that being said."  He picked up a chemistry periodical, thumbed through it.  He looked up part way into the magazine to find Sherlock watching him intently, as if deciphering a cryptogram.  "What?"

"Nightmare."  John shrugged, not feeling the need to agree with the statement.  He was pretty sure his skin was still flushed, and the sweat was cooling under his hair.  To someone observant, it was certainly apparent.  Sherlock continued.  "You have them often."

"With good reason."

"They're fairly recent.  Since your injury?"  John nodded, set the journal aside.  He could feel the lateness of the hour, the lack of restorative sleep, the new surroundings, all settle in on him.  Ignoring Sherlock, he leaned his head back, stared at the ceiling, not really seeing it, lost in a fatigue-induced haze.  Sherlock's words were slow, quiet, and unexpected.  "When was the last time you slept well?" Sherlock had turned his attention from the microscope and open computer spreadsheet and took in the fatigue, the despair, the sense that he'd given up trying to achieve slumber that night, and that it wasn't the first time he'd abandoned hope.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Research perhaps."

"I'm not one of your bloody cases."

"I might be able to help you figure this out."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does if you're going to be miserable during your waking hours due to sleep deprivation.  Or if the insomnia, or the dreaming, is upsetting you.  Only one of us should have the market cornered on behaving miserably, and I don't think you're cut out for that role."

Ignoring him, John grabbed the remote and flicked on the television. "Will this bother you?"

"It depends on what you watch. Anything spectacularly erroneous is subject to a shoe at your head."  It was a good natured warning, and there was the beginnings of eye crinkles, so it seemed Sherlock was  _mostly_ kidding.

He glanced over to find that Sherlock was still, indeed, wearing shoes.  Nice Italian leather ones of a size and weight nearly guaranteed to leave a nice bruise.  "Nice to know." Nonplussed, John stared at the screen, not even noticing the channels changing, stopped on a rebroadcast of the last Liverpool football match. Leaning back against the couch, he tried to stifle the frustrated groan, propped up his bare feet, closed his eyes. He could feel Sherlock's pointed gaze on him, cracked one eyelid. "What?"

"I don't sleep much either. And certainly not always during regular night hours."

"Great. We're a couple of ghouls, then."

"Vampires?"

"Maybe that's more apt.  Just please tell me your skin doesn't sparkle in the sunshine."  At Sherlock's blank expression, John snickered a bit.  "Nevermind.  Young adult literature reference."

"Oh god, spare me."  One side of Sherlock's mouth turned up in overt displeasure, and John's eye was drawn to the bow of  Sherlock's upper lip.  He looked away quickly, redirecting his vision and hoping his thoughts would follow.

John appreciated that he was not up by himself, rattling around in unfamiliar surroundings, smiled and exhaled slowly as he relaxed back into the cushion again. "So probably a month, five weeks. Before I got shot."

"Why do you think that is?"

John was briefly reminded of Ella, and the few times he'd become frustrated at the counselling language they all spoke, the ever-insightful attempt to draw out thoughts.  It hadn't taken them both long to realize it irritated John.  He particularly hated, 'and how does that make you feel?'.  He murmured, "Oh god, don't analyze me."

"Why not?" John could tell from the change in timbre that Sherlock had leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, intent on watching John. It was disconcerting. "Trauma, pain, surgery initially - all of those would explain the early days. You spent a few days in an acute hospital?" John nodded. "Busy unit, multi-occupancy wards, big rooms, lots of people and distractions. Then off to a transfer center --"

"Regional transition med center, yes."

"You have a roommate there?"

"Private room. Medical officer privilege I guess." John inclined his neck, hearing a satisfying crack in the one direction, nothing in the other. "So?"

"When was the last time you slept alone?" When John didn't respond at all, and then made a face at the imposition of the question, Sherlock chuckled briefly then pressed. "I mean, and actually slept."

John could feel his jaw clench.  "Leave it."

"Don't you want to at least understand it?"

"No. I said, _leave it_."

Even from a few feet away, John could hear the frustrated sigh, the squeak of a body readjusting in a chair, and a few moments later there was the sound of the laptop keyboard under rapidly typing fingers.   _Fine,_ John thought, if ignoring is the game, he was definitely on board with those rules.  He didn't recall dozing off there on the couch, telly droning on in the background as LFC would win again, but when he opened his eyes next, it was nearly light outside, the TV was off, and there was a blanket thrown over him. He was alone in the sitting room, and his heart started to pound, accelerating.  He'd learned over the last month-and-a-half the skill of talking himself off the ledge, of biofeedback to slow his heart rate, of guided mental imagery, of positive self-talk, of _calm-the-fuck-down_.  Upon sitting up, he could feel the immediate stress response start to abate as he became aware of the shower running - he was not alone.  Seemed companionship would be a powerful force, as well.

++

They settled into a bit of a routine.  John discovered something newly disgusting (or hazardous) in the flat, fussed about it.  Sherlock ignored most of that pathway progression, suffering through fussing, complaining, arguing, escalating, anger, and intimating harm, until John reached the level of threatening.  Then he would engage, stomping about huffily, taking care of whatever it was this time (eyeballs, fingers, a lobe of a liver - _a cirrhotic liver, John, fascinating!_ \- and the occasional necrotising fasciitis sample - _surely your simple mind recognises the value of that?_ ) while making as many aggravated sounds and actions possible.  Rather quickly, John learned to bypass all the early stages, explain the problem once, and issue the threatening edict.  It wasn't a perfect flatmate management system, but it was less frustrating than dealing with Sherlock's passive-aggressiveness.

From time to time, John accompanied Sherlock when he was summoned by Lestrade, but warned that it would be temporary, until he found a real (and when Sherlock glared at that he amended it to  _paying_ ) job.  There were times John's presence was helpful (talking Sherlock out of a full-fledged temper tantrum, for instance) and other times when John was on the receiving end of Sherlock's frustration (the lambasting of the idiots, for example, which at times was occasionally undeserved, and bloody difficult to hear _again_ ).  Occasionally there was a mild injury, but more often John managed to prevent injury by wise counsel or through forbidding Sherlock to recklessly pursue, chase, or otherwise put himself in danger.  John's presence, most of the time, was becoming crucial.  One episode even garnered the attention of a member of the staff of the British Government.

++

Mycroft was seated at his desk poring over some records kept by one of the companies he'd hired to oversee some limited personal as well as professional financial matters.  The numbers didn't add up, and he was close to tracking down the discrepancy.  Frowning, he knew it was there and could fire them anyway at will, but thought he would prove to himself he was sharp enough to unearth the diversion of funding.

The door that had been slightly ajar was now open, and he looked up to see one of his employees enter.  "Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft, brow raised, set his biro down on the column of numbers and gestured impatiently for the man to speak.

"I'm not sure," he began, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, "but I think you may be interested in some of the Grade Three CCTV footage I just found.  Just happened, actually."

Typically, he would simply be linked to some of the images via email in a daily report, but if he was in the office, he had requested to be notified more timely if activity was sighted on the Grade Three status updates or if something high profile was evolving.  Wordless, he rose to follow the man a few doors down the hall.  One of the video images had been paused, and when Mycroft nodded, the man advanced the video.

Though the photos were somewhat grainy, Mycroft could undoubtedly see Sherlock, a few members of the Met, a few civilians, at the entryway of a building.  There was no audio, of course, but decidedly it was an active crime scene behind police barriers, and judging by the cluster at the building egress, there was still an active event happening inside the building.  DI Lestrade was speaking on his mobile, and upon hanging up, gestured that all were to clear the area.  Mycroft hit pause.  "You read lips, yes? What was that he just spoke?"

The man was ready for him.  "Explosives inside."

The video showed them leaving the side of the building, presumably to a place of safety, and the camera lost them briefly, but when they returned, Sherlock was not with the group anymore but John Watson was.  The activity was difficult to follow, but when they realised at the query of John where Sherlock was, Lestrade turned wide eyes to the building.  The tech paused it again.  "We lose him for a bit, both of them, but then..."  And with the touch of a few buttons, Sherlock is again visible at an open delivery entrance of the building, and is ready to slink inside when another figure appears, quickly striking Sherlock about the waist and the two of them are seen running from the scene.  A drawn out flash of light, the camera shaking, losing image feed, and then quite a bit of static.

When the dust cleared, Mycroft was staring intently at two men laying among some debris, and there was a bright light illuminating the scene from presumably the fire, in the distance and off camera.  The tech clicked pause again, pointed to another monitor that was cued up to show the extent of the blaze.  Mycroft let out a low whistle, then turned his attention back to his brother.  For the next few very long moments, there was no movement, but then it dawned on him that John Watson had not only tackled his brother to the ground, but that he was continuing to shield him with his own body, holding him down until he was sure the highest probability of danger had passed.  A few arms and legs moved first, as John sat up and helped Sherlock quickly to his feet with the intent of ushering them both rapidly and safely away from the building.  Another pause, another camera angle, they were standing at an address a few blocks away, and Mycroft stared, seeing John's expression of concern and immediate triage of possible wounds or injuries, touching the back of Sherlock's head even, clinically competent in his primary survey.  On finding none other than some contusions and scrapes of his hands and perhaps bruises at the backs of his elbows (judging by John's quick assessment), he then is surprised to see the change in John Watson's expression - to one of relief.  John's head pressed against Sherlock's upper chest, eyes closed, and a visible exhalation is seen as they stood, connected.  There on the kerb, away from whatever danger Sherlock had attempted to run into -  _the bloody big idiot_ , Mycroft thought - they watched the younger Holmes be embraced in the strong arms of the man Mycroft had hoped would keep his brother out of trouble.  John Watson, Mycroft noted, was concerned enough to be visibly palliated at the lack of injury, at the threat of bodily harm, and, now that he knew Sherlock was largely intact, he would likely turn to something else.

And as Mycroft watched, he could see the flash of ire in John's eye as he grabbed him by the lapel and shook him once, frustrated, yelling, with body language clearly that of controlled, aggressive displeasure.

Mycroft could see his brother watching cautiously as John stood, then Sherlock reached out to grab John's hand.  In the black and white tones of the video, it was readily apparent that John had ignored the fact that both of his own palms and wrists were bleeding.  John shrugged off Sherlock's touch, still speaking, pointed a finger at him harshly, then made a hands-upward gesture of surrender.  Sherlock stared as John walked off.

"Where are they now?" Mycroft asked, knowing that an A&E trip would likely already have triggered a notification to him.

"We have your brother's mobile en route by auto presumably on his way to Baker Street, sir."

"And Dr. Watson?"

He shrugged.  Mycroft realised a deficiency in his system, then (given the lack of traceable electronics on one flatmate) as he speculated on the whereabouts of John Watson.  He pulled out his own mobile, typed a quick text, repocketed it, and then asked the technician to pull up Baker Street feeds.

++

John and Sherlock had arrived home slightly worse for wear, some torn clothing, ears ringing, some abrasions beginning to scab over, and Sherlock exited the cab ahead of John.  Again.  Reaching for his wallet as was becoming an all too-often occurrence, John gritted his teeth, also a too-often occurrence.  A bloody job was becoming more and more imperative.  The classified and help wanted sections online had, so far, been unhelpful, but John was determined.  His pension was barely enough to cover, particularly when Sherlock had found that if he bolted from the cab if they'd been out before John did, John was left to cover the fares.  Throbbing and sore, his hands needed a good cleaning, and he wanted to see under better lighting the extent of Sherlock's bruises.  He'd been fortunate, they both had, and John knew that if he'd waited any longer, this evening might have played out very differently.  He entered the flat to find Sherlock already at his computer, his body language distant, his blatant disregard telling.  Disappointed, he turned to the loo to see to his own abrasions.

++

Mycroft watched several camera angles at once, there from the flat, knew things were largely all right.  Not willing to tip his hand, he did not text or call Sherlock that moment to avoid arousing suspicion.  A few moments later, John returned wearing a dressing gown over tee shirt and sleep pants.  His hands were undressed, and Mycroft could not see well enough at a close enough range to determine how deep the abrasions may have been.  On the monitor screen, John crossed to Sherlock's chair, apparently spoke, then ran careful fingers along the back of Sherlock's head.  As he moved on quickly, Mycroft was fairly certain there was no laceration or hematoma.  John tugged at Sherlock's shirt until, frustrated, Sherlock pulled up his sleeves enough for John to look at his elbows.  One of them, Mycroft could tell, was rather sore and Sherlock quickly flinched at John's questioning touch.  John disappeared, returned with an ice pack, which Sherlock ignored initially.  John was seen on the monitor then cross the room and ascend the stairs.

Mycroft almost cut the feed then, but at the last moment he saw Sherlock raise his head to stare in the direction John had just disappeared.  His expression was almost soulful, longing.  There was a concern predominantly visible, and a furrow of the brow at the depth of emotion he was feeling.  Mycroft watched Sherlock sigh, blowing out a breath, then turn slowly from where John had last been seen.  A slight smile came to Mycroft's face, then, as he watched Sherlock pick up the ice pack and lower his elbow into it.

++

A couple of days later, John brought in the post and was pleasantly surprised that, among other things, there was an advert addressed to "occupant" and was a help wanted ad from a surgery a few blocks away.  He phoned, spoke with a Dr. Sarah Sawyer, and spent a few minutes on an unofficial interview.  She was encouraging and positive and wanted him to tour her facilities and meet some of the staff before they progressed any farther.  The following day, he took a quick walk down to the surgery as requested, met the staff, and was only mildly surprised that, before he'd even reached the flat, she was on the phone to offer him the position.  A few days of orientation under his belt, and he was relieved to be working on a very part time basis until they all got a feel for how well the practice would get on with his style. 

Finally working independently, John's third day ended with a catered lunch from a pharmaceutical company, and then an impromptu visit from a mobile phone rep.  Sarah informed John that they'd been stopping by several times a year to many of the businesses in the neighborhood, and that they were certainly aboveboard, but John could only eye the newest devices with a wistful eye, knowing the cost would be prohibitive.  As it was, he scraped by with enough to cover Harry's hand-me-down mobile, and was grateful enough for that.  

The salesman, then, after a few moments of idly passing the time, offhandedly told the group of them that he had a customer who was a bit eccentric and was looking for an older model phone and was offering a brand new device in exchange for it.  To John's surprise, it was the very model Harry had given him, and he pulled it from his pocket tentatively.  The receptionist noticed, pointing it out, and when John balked, the salesman was quick to assure him that the customer was wholly and completely and _unhealthily_ attached to her previous now non-functional device.  A few minutes later, a quick transfer of data, a reformat, and a signature, and John left for home with a brand new, budget neutral mobile in his pocket and a salesman who was also rather pleased with the bargain.

When Sherlock took immediate notice of John's new mobile, John brushed aside the incident, shrugging it off.  They were both distracted that evening with a new case from Lestrade, a safe one not involving explosive or a conflagration that evening.  Sherlock was less than thrilled at the ease with which he'd solved it, but John was satisfied when they returned home with a settled case and no drama or new injuries.  The scabs on his hands and wrists were healing quite well, and the bruising behind Sherlock's elbows were nearly gone.

Nights were still something of a problem.  Sherlock slept rarely, and was occasionally prone to simply leaving at any hour, pounding the streets for some random, bizarre reason.  More than once, John found cigarettes in his pockets, and the scent on his hair or jacket, upon his return.  He threatened bodily harm and held out a new pack of nicoderm with instructions.  Sherlock seethed about it, but did finally agree to try.  The nights that John rested the most were the nights when he could hear Sherlock rambling around the flat, playing quick sometimes-smooth-and-melodic, other times harsh-and-tortured, snippets on his violin, or even rattling beakers and graduate cylinders around on the kitchen table, intermittently conversing animatedly with himself.  When he did awaken, it was far easier to drift back to sleep or at least lay quietly when he could hear sounds of life in the flat.  The quiet nights were much harder.

John's nightmares usually simply awakened him, frightened, eyes wide open, silently panicking.  Several weeks after moving in, though, John had a nightmare that ended in a gunshot wound and the sound of John's own scream as he could almost feel the entrance path of the bullet pierce his shoulder, split skin, divide muscle, carve a groove through his flesh, rip apart the skin of his upper back on exit.  He lay there in the dark, feeling visceral pain, sighed a deep resigned breath, _another bloody night's_ sleep ending, tossed back a cover to let some of the sweat dissipate.  His heart was pounding and he thought again about Ella's suggestion that he keep record of some of the more frightening fragments of memories, of the things that led up to it.  Most of the time, he had no recall of the dream, and this time the only thing he remembered was the sensation of being shot.  He opted not to dwell on it, tried to catch his breath.  Unfortunately, there were hours left until daylight, and then John heard footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock didn't knock, simply opened the door, dressing gown over pyjama pants, hair tousled.  Artfully, he was illuminated and backlit by the hallway light.  He could make out the fact that Sherlock's toes were bare, the pile of the carpet, the glitter of Sherlock's eyes, darkly bright.

"Sorry I woke you."  John was quick to apologise.

"Wasn't asleep long anyway."

"Still."  John snorted.  "Don't usually scream and wake myself up, either."

Sherlock was nodding.  "The last few nights your sounds were much quieter, and you woke up a few minutes after."

"Sounds."  He echoed the word.  "God.  I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Apologising is ridiculous for something over which you undeniably have no control."

"Sor--" John realised the apology was automatically almost spoken before cutting the word off.  "Oh well.  Thanks for checking on me."

"You were thrashing less tonight."

An eye narrowed at him, Sherlock realised, as John connected the statement with Sherlock's behaviour.  "Please don't watch me sleep."

"But it's fascinating.  And may ultimately be beneficial."

"Oh, god, _Sherlock._ Just. Stop. It."

"I want to help you.  Clearly, your mind is trying to untangle the reality, to remember.  Maybe I can solve it.  It's what I do."

"I am aware.  But my sleeping is fragile enough without the fear that you're staring at me."

"I'm not staring.  The webcam is simply transmitting..."

"Webcam," John echoed with a degree of disbelief. "No. _No._  Get rid of it." Sherlock huffed as if John were the one being unreasonable.  "Immediately, Sherlock."  Having become privy to the workings of Sherlock's mind, a bit anyway, John could sense the word fascinating was perhaps scheduled for another appearance, as if speaking it was a governmental pardon for all sorts of misdeeds and invasions of privacy.  John thought if he heard it, he would be slugging Sherlock's _fascinating_ face with his fist.

"Fine," he almost snarled, crossed the barely lit room, snatched out the small wireless camera that had apparently been sitting unobtrusively in plain sight on the corner of a wall shelf.

"I get dressed in here, Sherlock.  Definitely more than a bit not good."  John could only shake his head at the turn of the discussion.

"It was only at night.  Mostly anyway."  Sherlock opted not to mention the preference he had for the dark navy pants John'd worn yesterday.  And also thought John might not take too kindly to being informed that the dimples over his bum were slightly asymmetrical, the left minutely more pronounced.  "I meant well."

"Meaning well should include something helpful, or kind.  Respecting boundaries and having a preserved sense of ethical behaviour."

"Give me an example."

"Of kindness?  My mum used to rub the back of my head when I had a bad dream."

The look on Sherlock's face was somewhere between horrified and comically amused.  "Would you like me to do that? Because I am rather disinclined..."  It was a rather needed teasing banter.  "And you're the one who mentioned boundaries.  Scalp massage might be crossing those."

"She would have made me tea, too. Chamomile or herbal.  Something soothing."

Sherlock sighed there in the dark closeness of John's bedroom, then an audible pursed-lipped exhalation sounded as he turned on his heel, with heavier feet than previously, traversed the stairs again, leaving John for a moment.

John couldn't stop the snicker at Sherlock's passive/aggressive stomping, followed by noise of cabinets and mugs slamming on the worktop, and hoped Sherlock couldn't hear the snort from the kitchen.  He clicked on the lamp, which cast a dim glow across the room. With the light on and a bit of time elapsing from the nightmare and the present safety of Baker Street, even in its relative unfamiliarity, he could feel his body settle, relax. Sherlock returned with two mugs of tea, _peppermint_ John could tell, the scent light and mild.  He reached a grateful hand out as Sherlock pressed a cup into it.  He continued right where he'd left off.  "My gram, on the other hand, used to fetch me my favourite ..."

There was something between a chuckle and a growl as Sherlock muttered, "Don't push it."

"... blanket," John finished.

Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, tossing the duvet haphazardly in John's direction before he put his weight on it.

John took a sip, let a smile speak for him, could almost feel the heat infuse his body and chest.  The hand-mouth action, the warm beverage, the activity was comforting.  As was the company.  "Thanks."

"Yeah, well, thanks for your help with the cabbie.  I'm not sure I ever said it then."  He made a bit of a face at John's wide-eyed response.  "I hope that was sufficiently appropriate for proper use of the interjection."

Entertained, John shook his head, smiling, then grew serious as something else crossed his mind.  "I've been meaning to ask you, about that night, do you really think you had the safe pill?"

There was silence, that became drawn out. John sipped, waited, wondered. "I think I had a 50-50 chance."

"You know those are terrible odds."

"I had a 50-50 chance on a good flatmate, too.  Sometimes gambling pays off."

John felt his brow furrow, the pain in his shoulder reminding him that outcomes can be negative, too.  "Sometimes."  He was grateful for the company, slid his foot over to rest against Sherlock's leg, through the duvet, seeking connection and the touch of another person.  "I'm not sure a flatmate who screams bloody murder in the middle of the night qualifies me as an especially good flatmate."

Sherlock's hand reached over, his warm palm sliding fully over John's ankle, a nonverbal statement of affirming another's presence, of stability, of unity.  "You have other redeeming qualities."  His eyes flicked to John's mouth.  "As I recall."  They hadn't done much more than the occasional lingering touch or an extended period of eye-contact, the knowledge that there was something brewing, something simmering, something chemical and just under the surface waiting for the opportune moment.

"Are you taking advantage of my vulnerability?"

"Is that how you see yourself?  Vulnerable?"  John shrugged.  "Because I definitely do not.  Unsettled perhaps.  But not bloody likely to be taken advantage of.  Not even by a master manipulator such as myself."  His eyebrows waggled at that, and it was adorably charming overtop of the bow-lipped smile.

"You brought me tea.  You can't be entirely bad."  Their eyes met, a connection far beyond simply looking at each other, but of companionship and of warmth.  John finally looked away, licking at his lower lip without realising it.

"I haven't heard you ask me to leave.  Because I...  well, I _might_ , if you ask me nicely."  When John quirked both his eyebrow and the left side of his mouth, Sherlock realised what he'd said.  "Leave, I mean, not take advantage."

"I'm not looking for you to leave."  He cleared his throat, looked away as he leaned more fully into the pillow.  "Actually, this is helpful.  The company, I mean."  He stammered over the words, and both of them knew there was much that John wasn't saying, opted not to say.

"I don't think it's unusual to be unsettled when you've grown accustomed to a tent full of mates, have something traumatic happen," Sherlock said this looking pointedly at John's shoulder, "and be unnerved when suddenly left alone in a room by yourself."  He spoke matter of factly, and it was not a revelation to John of course.  He'd come close to asking Tom, the doctor who'd overseen his care in Kabul, about it.  "Didn't it occur to you to ask for a roommate at the transfer center?"

"Of course it did.  I almost did, but, uh... I was embarrassed."  This was delivered quietly, leaving no doubt as to the extent of the emotion.

"Explain."  Also spoken gently, Sherlock asked the question more for the need John had to speak rather than his desire to know, because, naturally, he already knew.

"Raised by a heavy-handed fiercely independent man, mistreated his family, tolerated absolutely no weakness.  I cried _once_ in front of him, ended up ..."  John recalled the angry hand and could sense Sherlock understood too, at his whispered utterance that included the word bastard - and John would not have corrected him.  "Drove my mum to an early grave and then drove his car into a tree, totally pissed.  I held a job from my earliest opportunity, took care of my med school fees, placed top ten in class."  He recalled the satisfaction he'd derived from his own independence, his accomplishments.  "Enlisted, not just army doctor, but army _surgeon_.  I was good where I'd landed, there in the hospital.  A leader, you know?"  Sherlock nodded.  "No weakness.  Then the mission happened.  I was ranking officer on patrol.  Not able to recall a rather big event, a life-changing one at that.  Seems rather weak to admit that I didn't..."

When the silence lingered, Sherlock nudged him along.  "Didn't what?"

"Didn't want to say I was afraid of being alone."

"Rather foolish, wouldn't you agree?"  Sherlock didn't mince words, but his tone was quiet and gentle.

John felt anger rising, knew it wasn't helpful.  "Easy for you to say.  On the outside looking in, I mean."

"John."

He looked over at Sherlock, who was watching him back, not a judgmental expression but one of solemn openness.  The look wasn't enough, apparently Sherlock was waiting for a verbal response.  "Yes?"

"Do you want me to stay here with you?"  John couldn't stop staring, his eyes taking in the almost emotionless expression as Sherlock stared back at John.  He wasn't laughing at him, wasn't really showing any pity, it was just a question.  Sherlock continued, then, "Obviously you are more frightened when you are alone."

There was a pregnant pause, a hesitation, a long moment where John's fierce sense of pride did battle with his desires.  His lips changed shape a few times as he prepared to speak, changed his mind, changed it back.  He refused to look away, or worse, look down, as he mentally surrendered to himself and answered.  "Yes.  I would like you to stay here with me."  He cleared his throat again.  "Not for... anything, just sleeping."

The inflection in John's voice, the uncertainty despite the clear message did then bring a half smirky smile to Sherlock, the right corner of his mouth turning up a bit.  "I was only thinking sleeping.  But if it were to end up more than that, it wouldn't be the first impulsive thing you've ever done, you realise."

"I don't ..."  The protest trailed off, another sentence incomplete, as Sherlock launched his long body from where he was overtop of John, and ended up sprawled across the empty space of John's bed.  

"John."  Sherlock coiled until he was folded onto his side, elbow under his head.  The dark curls stuck up even as he pulled the covers up near his chin.  "The light, please."

John heard the words, but it took a moment before he persuaded his arm to move to click the lamp off.  Sherlock was watching him, eyes open, as relaxed on the surface as usual.  "You said please.  I am definitely in over my head here, if you're remembering manners at a time like this."  Sherlock made a questioning tone deep in his throat.  "Beg pardon for not trusting you, but..."  John let the sentence trail off as Sherlock shook his head.

"Go to sleep, John."  John could hear the audible exhale, the absolute stillness of his flatmate-turned-bedmate (as he was wondering how on earth did this happen again?), and could see as his eyes adjusted to the nearly blackened room that Sherlock's eyes were still open.   _"Please."_

++

The mess tent changed from a social, casual group of people eating at long tables to absolute chaos, with men and women diving for cover, hitting the ground in seconds.  The rifleman at the door shouldered the weapon, aiming methodically at any chest he could see, with a resultant gunshot, scream, blood spray, and thump.  Bodies were falling, John could smell the blood seeping out onto the floor, bubbling out from sucking chest wounds and from large arteries and veins of central circulation.  He could see the colour of the wounded change from perfusing healthy pink to gray and pale and empty.  From his vantage point, motionless on the floor, he could see the fear and pain on the faces of the men as they died, twitching, some reaching out toward him with beseeching eyes and outstretched hands.  It was as if they were begging and pleading for him to do something, save them, alleviate the pain, rescue them.  

And then in an instant they were gone, and he'd been deserted, abandoned.  It was only him in the tent, terrified and cowering on the floor, and his breathing sounded loud, heart pounding, skin tingling.  He could see, also, the boots of the marksman across the tent, prowling, on the hunt.  The weapon cocked loudly, and just as he reached for his non-existent weapon at his hip, he felt the searing pain in the upper left portion of his chest.  The sniper, dressed head to toe in black, stared at him with keen eyes, cheekbones rimmed underneath with facepaint.

He gasped and awakened.

"Shhh."  He lay on his side, heart pounding, his body arching forward as if he had just breached the surface of a lake, air hungry.  A warm hand slid from his side, a ghost of a touch initially, slowly brushing over his ribs, easing and guiding him backwards, but he refused to move.  The remnants of the frozen position in the dream still clinging to him, John wanted to spring from the bed, bolt from the room.  "Breathe."  He felt a warm body slide up behind him - warmth to his chill, relaxed to his tense, calm to his terror.  His breath left him, but the tension mounted a few moments until he inhaled again.  The hand splayed out along his sternum, tee shirt soft between them, but the gentle touch was calming, centering.  His back to Sherlock's front, legs bent with Sherlock's tucked behind his own.  Even Sherlock's breathing surrounded him with warm puffs of air, the expansion of ribs from behind him as Sherlock breathed slowly.  He could feel signs of life and the comforting presence of another person on the back of his neck and shoulder.  "Just breathe," the sleep-laden voice was roughened and throaty.  

The quick respirations were yet another attempt to cope, with John fighting against his own body as it kept insisting that he needed to move, stand up, get up, fight, flee, hide, and retaliate.  Intending to fling the covers wide and get up, John felt Sherlock's mouth move near his head as he whispered, "Stay.  You're fine."  Vice-like, Sherlock's hand closed around his wrist preventing him from leaving, from restlessly fussing, from doing much of anything.  His lack of mobility with the one limb left him more receptive to, perhaps, listening, or at least Sherlock hoped.  "Nothing's going to happen here.  You're safe."

John gave a token twist of his wrist, could have escaped had he really tried, of course, but Sherlock's fingers tightened even more, and he drew his arm holding John's so that it was wrapped around John's ribs.  "I'm sorry -"

"If you don't cease apologising for non-controllable events, I will be forced to extreme measures."

"But -"

"Stop talking.  Just listen."  And he began to explain the randomness of dreams, that obsessing over any of it was counter-productive, that he wasn't alone, that all was going to be fine, that he simply needed to break the cycle of the nightmares, to be less disturbed by them, to retrain himself to fall back to sleep.  His baritone voice was slow, steady, calm, and by the time a few moments had gone by, John was definitely more relaxed.  Without John being immediately aware of it, Sherlock had let go of John's hand and cautiously slid his long fingers into John's posterior scalp and the top of his neck.  With careful pressure, he had begun rubbing small circles, a lightly massaging touch

_\- my mum used to rub the back of my head -_

and by the time John realised what had happened, his body had relaxed, the anxiety working its way out under Sherlock's fingers.  The association was grounding, pleasant, and meaningful to John.

"'s nice," John mumbled, his freed hand sliding up onto Sherlock's forearm as he worked the back of John's neck.  It was an acknowledgement of the gesture, of the comforting parallel to what John had spoken to earlier about his mum.  "You can stop if you want."

"Shhh."

John felt the touch slowing down and lightening, likely signalling it was ending.  "God, that's wonderful," he said, voice low, gravelly, and crackling with the roughness of unpolished emotion.  

The fingers stilled, and John's eyes opened as he sensed the suddenness of the halted fingers.  Immediately, Sherlock withdrew his fingers and eased his body out from behind John, but not before John became blatantly aware of Sherlock's rising erection that vanished from under John's bum as quickly as he'd noticed it's presence.

"Sherlock?"  John rolled part way over to speak, noticing that Sherlock was now on his back with one knee drawn up.

"It's fine.  Sleep, John."  There was a bit of stress in Sherlock's voice, an edge that had not been there moments before.  "Hopefully the dream is over and won't return -"

"It's ok.  There are other things that help a person sleep, you know."  Sherlock was quiet, not moving anything.  John rolled a bit farther so he was facing him, drew a finger out to Sherlock's shoulder, sliding across bicep to the crook of his elbow, letting his hand wrap around Sherlock's forearm.  He knew he was smirking, not terribly sleepy any more, feeling similar stirrings on his own body.  He could only chuckle a bit as he asked, _"Please?"_

Johns hand came directly in contact with Sherlocks elastic banded pyjama pants, his fingers barely touching the softly haired skin there.  He was warm, solid, and moaned just slightly as John's fingers tucked inside, barely meeting the flat abdomen.  "I should go," Sherlock murmured.  "You accused me earlier of taking advantage of your vulnerability.  If I stay here longer, I may do exactly that."

"You realise if I wanted you to leave I would have said so."  John left his hand where it was, completely motionless.  "I get it if you don't want to stay, though.  I wouldn't blame you."

"Not want to stay?  Of course I want --"

John could hear the angst in his own voice, and before he could talk himself out of it, his mouth opened again.  "I can't help but think there's a part of me that's just ... broken on some level."  

"No."  Sherlock answered quickly, resolutely, stating his answer clearly, a simple truth, a fact.  "There is nothing about your present circumstance that indicates anything other than, understandably, being a bit uncertain.  Your mind is searching for answers, you know."  John let that sink in, wanting to argue but opting to let Sherlock continue. "In fact, I would assert that many people if they were faced with your situation, would not be faring nearly as well.  I myself would have long since become enraged, you already know I do not tolerate being left out, lacking all the information.  Your acceptance of the dilemma," and when John began to protest at that, Sherlock held up a hand to shush him, "you are accepting - yes, hear me out - you have not let it beat you.  It is not winning.  There's a ridiculous analogy about bootstraps that I will not use, but you demonstrate an enormous amount of resiliency here."  John felt the slightest amount of tingling in his chest, the flush of his skin, the sheen of sweat and the throbbing that was becoming more pronounced between his legs.  John felt Sherlock's fingers come to his jaw, turn his head so that John was looking directly in his face despite the dimly lit room.  "Not a weakness."

It was an empowering thought, as John flipped it over a few times in his mind, one that allowed him some peace.  It was permissive, the knowledge that his strength was visible despite all the insecurities that rattled around his brain particularly at night when sleep was so elusive.  "Thanks for that."  Sherlock's fingers were still on his face, brushing just barely against the stubble, and John moved his free hand to catch Sherlock's, holding both there near his neck.  Words failed him, and in his opinion, largely unnecessary.  John slid his other hand under the fabric, letting his fingers span Sherlock's pelvis, sliding around to the back of his thigh.

Sherlock tensed.  "If you're sure..."

Not a moment's hesitation, and John replied, "I'm sure."

It was all the permission needed, and within a short span clothing was removed, and hands, lips and bodies were pressed together, holding, searching, touching. Anxious hands reached and held, and all too quickly John moaned deep in his chest, overcome with arousal and stimulation and the imminent release of tension as well as a satisfying burst of body fluids.  When John's hands were able, he grabbed at Sherlock, his touch firm, held tight as Sherlock's hand wrapped snug around his own, and a few thrusts was all it took for Sherlock to join him, satisfied.  Sherlock found something - a shirt, a sock, John didn't really care - to wipe them off with and then lobbed it onto the floor.  He pressed and pulled John's body until he was laying in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, tugging the duvet into place above their waists.  John could feel Sherlock's arm wrapped around his back, drawing him close, their breath warm and heart rates finally settling down.  He felt Sherlock's mouth against his temple, the spread of his fingers behind John's waist, and their free hands came together over Sherlock's ribcage, fingers touching and holding.  The connection touched a chord deep in John's chest, settling and centering him.  It was comfort in a form he could hold on to, and he relaxed.

That night, the remnants of it anyway, was best sleep he could recall since long before his injury.

++

Sherlock came back into the flat carrying their dinner, take away from their favourite Thai place. He was surprised to find Mycroft in the flat, enjoying a tumbler of scotch with John. They'd been talking about the recent case Sherlock had solved regarding the international smuggling incident when Sherlock arrived, and very quickly Sherlock was suspicious.

"Why are you here? Out scrounging for food, hoping for a handout?"

"Of course not. I'm just concerned, out for a bit of an evening stroll, decided to pop in, see how you're faring."

"No." Sherlock set the bag down, moved to stand near Mycroft's chair, to tower over him. His attempt to look menacing and intimidating failed miserably, as Mycroft only gestured him away with a hand. _"_ You never _pop_ anywhere _. Myc._ " He sneered the shortened name, and that got the reaction he'd been seeking as Mycroft downed the remainder of his drink, uncrossed his legs, and reached inside his jacket.

"I happened to find something come across my desk, military liaison, you know. MI-6 regularly reports to me."

"No one cares." Sherlock flumped into the chair across from John as John shook his head, sadly aware of the disdainful attitude in the room. "Get out."

"You may actually not care about what I have, but Dr. Watson might."

"No, he doesn't."

"Can speak for myself if needed, ta.  And contrary to popular opinion," John interjected, "your childish antics, both of you, are not entertaining in the least. Grow up, bloody both of you!" Both Holmes' turned pale eyes toward him. "Please, I'm begging, Mycroft, say what you need to in as few words as possible and please, politely as I can say it, please leave. I am left to deal with the sulk after every visit or phone call, and let me tell you, it's unpleasant." Sherlock snorted at that, looked away, his jaw set stubbornly. "Obviously your flair for the dramatic dictates the evening, as you could have talked to me at any time over the last half hour, but you wanted your brother here for some reason." His voice raised in intensity but not volume, "Now," he emphasised, "out with it. And then get out."

He'd pulled out an envelope for an inside pocket with some thickness to it. "Dr. Watson." He offered the envelope but did not hand it over, and John stared at it for a few moments before reaching out to take it.

All eyes were on him, and he felt the flat box in the envelope before slitting it open. It was addressed to Capt. John H. Watson, MD, retired, c/o the Royal Army Medical Corps at the main office in London.

He drew out a letter and clear plastic box, flat and thin. With somber eyes, he stared at the blue and white ribbon over the white metal of the pendant inside the display box. The Military Cross.  There was a fullness in his chest as he realised the significance and intent. All eyes were on him when he looked briefly at Mycroft then at Sherlock, both watching him. The letter held his attention then, briefly, and he read silently, twice over, before setting the letter down. Some bizarre connection from the items in his hand went directly to the shoulder wound as it tingled and ached at the same time.

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and John handed him the letter, watching him carefully as he read pieces of the commendation aloud. "... for services rendered under enemy attack... dangerous rescue mission ... for gallantry during active operations..." The impressed raising of the eyebrows as he nodded at the medal in John's hands was genuine, and he continued then, handing the letter back while patently avoiding Mycroft's inquisitive glance, "Congratulations, John. Well deserved."

"No," John said, slightly harshly, a frown on his tired looking face. "Actually it wasn't. I mean, there was no combat there. Sniper fire? That doesn't quite count." John softened then though was still perplexed. "I mean, thank you, I don't mean to be unappreciative, nice to be recognised of course. The mission was, well, apparently more than I knew about then - and still know. I didn't expect that at all." He smiled thinly, setting the letter under the box on the edge of the table.

Sherlock blinked a few times, watching John's reaction, then turned his head to narrow an eye unhappily at his brother. "How did you come to get that again, Mycroft?"

"All comes through my office. Don't think for a second that I am uninformed about many things, brother."

"That is definitely not your jurisdiction."

"It is all my jurisdiction if I choose it to be." Mycroft's head raised slightly in challenge, staring intently back at Sherlock. John looked between the two in a few brief volleys as if watching a tennis match.  There was much more than the spoken word being communicated here, he noted.

" _I_ am not your jurisdiction." Even as Sherlock spoke the words, John found himself wondering if that were indeed true. "And neither is John."  Mycroft went to a lot of trouble, apparently, to keep tabs on his brother, monitor even things, like John's commendation, that only touched Sherlock peripherally. They stared at each other, and Sherlock broke the connection first, and there was an almost audible eye-rolling. "Get out."

Mycroft paused a few moments, making sure that the message was clearly sent that he was not about to be ordered around. He stood, then, nodded his head at John and offered his own congratulations, assuring him that, "Obviously the award was deserved, Dr. Watson, as the MOD does _not_ make mistakes." Aristocratic snob, John realised.

John forced his mind back to the present and away from the mission that, most of the time didn't bother him but that now was on his mind again. "Thanks for delivering it. And the reassurance. You're right, of course," John acknowledged coolly and without particularly believing his own statement.

John paid no attention as Sherlock's gaze studied Mycroft as he let himself out of the flat, then stood at the draperied window to watch him get into a materialising car at the kerb.  Sherlock's eyes narrowed in speculation.

++

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was an initial story ending that morphed into something much bigger, and getting the characters ready for something of a show-down has been both fun and challenging. Next chapter, Sherlock starts putting more pieces together. And John thought amnesia was frustrating...
> 
> One of these days, I would like to actually write a chapter from beginning to end (as opposed to my standard write the beginning, the end, and then go back 47 times to add another scene or more information in the middle!).
> 
> If a detail has slipped past me, please let me know and I will be glad to clarify or fix.


	6. Enlightenment

Sherlock met John at the surgery at the end of the day. They'd planned to go back to Angelo's to celebrate surviving an entire month together without _flatmate_ induced bodily injury. There hadn't been a recent kidnapping or knife fight, although a week ago John had spent an uncomfortable half hour cleaning gravel out of the heels of Sherlock's hands at the kitchen table after a run in with one of London's fleeing criminals. The staff was winding down, charts completed and filed, the patients gone, the reception area empty and dark, and John had just been working on some paperwork in his office, listening to the radio, an upbeat station just to fill the silence. One of the other doctors was ready to leave, too, and for a moment, the three of them stood in the waiting room chatting about one of the more humorous patient adventures that day. John was just buttoning his coat when the other doc, just before stepping out, turned back, "Oh, Dr. Watson, your radio!" which was still playing in his office, forgotten and largely ignored as they'd been conversing animatedly up until then.

Sherlock nodded, said, "Yes, by all means, shouldn't waste power--" and then his voice trailed off as he caught sight of John's suspended expression.

The door clicked and they were left alone in the waiting room. Sherlock waited a few moments for John to speak, and when he did in fact blink suddenly and fix his gaze on Sherlock, it was something Sherlock did not want to intrude on, so he kept quiet.

"That was odd. That phrase. I had forgotten..."  The silence enveloped them again, and Sherlock watched disjointedly as John swallowed a few times - _dry mouth, anxiety_ \- and the bounding carotid artery at his neck pounded out a rather tachycardic beat - _stress response, most assuredly_.  There was also a pallor to him, but the disturbing part was most definitely the pain and befuddlement in his eyes and of his shocked face.  

 _Stress ages him, makes him sad, dislike!_ Sherlock observed silently, choosing a mild response, "Yes, you left the radio on," to fill the silence when John's management of a complete sentence seemed failing.

"No, you berk." He breathed fully, then quickly stepped toward his office, silenced the device, returned to lean against the counter, his respirations deliberate and deep. "Before we headed out on the mission, before I got shot, I had forgotten, I had radio troubles, got a new one right before leaving."

"You might be very close to remembering the whole thing, John.  Probably a bit of help along those lines, just might be enough..."

"No."  His answer was quick and absolute.

"What do you mean, _no_?"

Shaking his head with an amused revelation, John, sidestepping, answered, "People don't tell you 'no' very often do they."

"Not especially.  I'm much easier to handle when I get what I want."  They grinned at each other both recognising the canon of that concept, but it was fleeting, and shortly John's expression was somber.  Circling around and not to be denied, Sherlock added, "Why would you not want to speed this process along?"

"I'm not sure I want to know, exactly."

"That's ridiculous.  Of course you do, it bothers you, it keeps you from sleeping."  He left out the observation that it did _awful_ things to John's typically pleasant and attractive features.

"What if I made a mistake, I missed something crucial, that led to all this? What if it was my fault?"

"What if you had."  By Sherlock's tone and prompt reply, it occurred to John that Sherlock had already realised that was a possibility.  "Does it change anything?  Does it undo anything?"  He grew bolder.  "No one else was hurt, far as you know, right?"

John shrugged.  "Far as I was told.  I feel like it's right there sometimes.  I just can't help but think that remembering might actually be worse than not remembering."  He made a face, and Sherlock briefly considered poking him just to remove that look and banish it, then John shook his head, "Something's definitely wrong, though.  Something went remarkably wrong, and it doesn't add up."  Conveniently for John, and an annoyance to Sherlock, John's stomach growled then, and the subject, for the moment, was closed.

Angelo's proved to be great fun, with Sherlock deducing all sorts of outrageous things (some of them, John knew, were probably false) about the rest of the clientele.  The radio did not come up in conversation again, but Sherlock didn't forget.  Not for a minute.

++

A few days later at Lestrade's request, they stopped by the Met to meet with him regarding some details that had arisen on a series of crimes.  He wanted Sherlock's opinion and analysis.  There was a dearth of staff present, and the desk sergeant explained they'd been out doing some community training, would return shortly.  A few officers in uniform and gear trickled in, followed by Lestrade, who was chatting with some of the training school leadership who'd apparently been brought in to help.  Greg made a few introductions, and then he and Sherlock wandered into Greg's office, leaving John in the lobby area.

The rest of those involved in the field exercise came in then, two officers John didn't recognise and a teacher dressed all in black, black hat, face paint, which John didn't take more than a passing notice of until he saw the man up close and found himself facing glittering dark eyes.  The training squad barely acknowledged John's presence as they carried a few boxes into the depths of the building.  Puzzled and unable to tear his eyes away, John watched them, heart pounding, skin moist, frozen in place.  He was distracted and out of sorts enough that he didn't even notice that Sherlock and Greg had returned, and Sherlock had apparently called his name more than once.  The man in black returned, said a farewell to them all, crossed the lobby, and left.

John had watched silently, then his eyes cut to the rest of the room, spied both Greg and Sherlock observing him.  "Looks like you've seen a ghost, mate," Greg said, casually.  "You ok?"

Refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze, John shrugged himself and tried to get his head back into the present time.  "Yeah, just daydreaming, I guess."

There were a few files in Sherlock's hands, and Greg left them alone in the lobby.  "What was that all about?" he asked John, who he still felt was a bit pale and not quite back to himself yet.

"Nothing."  John gestured at the files, then took a few steps toward the door.  "You ready to tackle some of that casework?"

" _That_ was not nothing."

Fixing steely dark eyes at his flatmate, John continued walking toward the door, effectively closing the subject and any further discussion of the bizarre association. Sherlock filed that away to ponder later, thinking that perhaps his next case just might be solving the mystery of John Watson.

++

Sherlock started a spreadsheet later that night after John had gone to bed - upstairs instead of the downstairs bedroom where they'd spent the last few nights.   _Curious,_ but he started typing.

Under experiential, he placed nightmares, solitude, and guilt.  A few descriptor words opposite, and he moved to the right column.

Another heading, tangible, and he added radio equipment, black clothing, and handgun.  He'd inspected John's Browning, and knew he hadn't touched it since moving in, had laid a hair across it so he could tell immediately if it had been handled or moved.  But Sherlock had seen the twitch in his hand and the guarded look about his eyes when he'd placed it in the desk, the almost latent regret.  Inconclusive so far, all of it.  A few additional words of clarification, not that he would forget, but for symmetry of the document, and his mind whirled.

He needed more observations.

He password protected the file, just in case, logged off, and climbed the stairs to John's room, untying his dressing gown along the way.  He rationalised that he didn't want John to dream, awaken alone, and if the indications of his odd reaction to the past few days' events proved true, he told himself that John would prefer a bed partner if that happened.  As for himself, Sherlock had found the presence of another body in the bed a pleasant dalliance if nothing else, and, if he found himself awake, there were always interesting parts of John to stare at, observe.  Even better when it led to touching and tasting.  Yesterday it had been a swirly hair pattern at the nape of his neck, and a smattering of freckles the morning before that.  He told himself it was definitely not the fulfilling, satisfying sexual release that led him to pursue John upstairs.  Although, it would be easy enough to awaken him when he climbed into bed.  

Tomorrow he'd fuss about the unnecessary use of the upstairs bedroom.  For tonight, he just wanted to make appropriate _use_ of said bedroom.  He was pretty sure John would be amenable to the distraction.

++

Anxious to leave work, Greg had checked his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.  He liked to get to poker night a bit early at the club down from his house and scope out and stake squatters rights on the lesser used room, have a pint at his leisure.  Finally, his last minute tasks completed, he walked quickly to the bar, waved a greeting to the barman, received his typical draft, then entered the back room that they typically used.  He drew up short as he realised the room wasn't empty.

Sitting at a table, engrossed in both a mobile phone and a tablet, was a tall, slightly thinning-haired man in a ritzy bespoke suit.  There was a pocketwatch, an umbrella, and an air of pretention about him.  Greg made the assumption he was also meeting someone here, and hoped he would vacate the room once Greg's poker game got going.  He straightened a few chairs, set a few decks of cards out in preparation, then eased into a seat at the table.  The stress of the day and the hectic pace, not to mention the responsibility of his position, seemed to slide off his shoulders as the beer slid down his throat.  

"Good evening," the intruder spoke to him, a bit aloof and certainly with no warmth in his voice.

"To you as well."  Greg thought the face and the eyes looked familiar, but he contacted so many people that unfortunately just a look of familiarity did nothing to identify the man.  Warily, Greg watched him close up his gear and come over to stand near Greg's chair.

"I believe we have a common acquaintance."

Greg wondered at the approach, wondered if the man knew him.  Intuitively, he breathed in from his belly, feeling the reassurance of his concealed weapon at the small of his back.  Trying not to be terribly suspicious, Greg stood as well.  "DI Gregory Lestrade."

"Yes, I know."  The man standing now eye level had just a bit of sparkle and amusement in his eyes, and Greg's sense of impending doom dissipated.  If he was bothering to tease, there was probably little threat.

Greg gestured with both arms in a bit of frustration that the man in front of him didn't take the non-subtle hint, and followed it up with a question, "And you are?"

"Mycroft Holmes."  When Greg's eyes narrowed initially at that, he quickly realised the connection and then the striking similarity between the Holmes' brothers pale eyes - and _quirkiness_ \- was blatantly obvious.

"Sherlock's brother, of course."  Greg held out a hand, then, and Mycroft shook it.  "Pleasure to meet you."  This was followed by a slight incline of the head, no words.  "Poker game tonight, in case you want to join us."

Mycroft's lip started to curl in distaste at the childish proclivities planned for the night, so he hid it best he could. "I think not."  With careful consideration, he seemed to be evaluating Greg and his eyes were piercingly sharp.  "I wanted to thank you for your assistance over the last months with encouraging Sherlock toward ... more scrupulous behaviour."

"I'm sure you understand, I really am not comfortable discussing past events without Sherlock's consent."  Greg's radar was still activated enough to feel uncertain. "I can certainly agree that he seems much more settled, and has outgrown some of his earlier struggles."

"If by that you mean _substances_ , yes."

Greg did not engage with the word, attempting to keep his face neutral.

"There's not much about my brother that I am uninformed about.  Which is why I'm here tonight, to make sure you had means to contact me if you grow concerned about him again."  Mycroft handed over a business card, on fine card stock paper, with only name and mobile number.  "I know about his consulting work, his cocaine habit history, his extremely intelligent mind.  His flatmate, too, of course.  I know John Watson has been accompanying him at times on cases.  I would imagine that's helpful."

Greg's tongue loosened up, just a bit, then.  Clearly Sherlock's brother was well versed, although Greg chose his words carefully.  "Good bloke, John.  And yes, much of the time, he's there."  The smile was genuine.  "You've met him, then?"

"Of course."  What Mycroft didn't say: Not just met him _, I picked him._

"Best thing that's probably ever happened to Sherlock.  Seriously.  John's been very good for him."

"Well, if you ever need ... help with my stubborn git of a brother in John's absence, please do not hesitate."  Mycroft's eyes flicked to the card, and Greg nodded, shrugged.

"I doubt I'll need it," Greg mentioned.  "'I've learned to handle him myself, at times, if necessary."

"Indeed."  Mycroft looked like he had more to say, but noise at the doorway distracted him.  The rest of those Greg had invited began to trickle in, Mycroft tipped his head, took his umbrella firmly in hand, and left the room.

Between hands - lost the first, took the second - he couldn't help but think how far Sherlock had come from the arrogant addict he'd been when the two of them had first crossed paths, and how expedient it was for Sherlock to have a brother who looked out for him in this way.  And now John.  Obviously this Mycroft chap was willing to go to some trouble to meet those in Sherlock's life, to make sure people were watching out for him.  It made Greg relax a bit, knowing Sherlock had someone keeping tabs on his whereabouts and activities.  Very impressive indeed.

++

John's return to wakefulness was in part due to Sherlock's groan of protest at the mobile buzzing on the nightstand.  Groggily after the late night previously, John opened one eye to find his vision mostly obscured with dark curls and a discarded nicotine patch that for some reason was on the upper edge of John's pillow.  Reaching out a sleepy finger, he flicked at it until it launched out of sight.  He wondered absently how many Sherlock was still wearing, realised it was time for another inspection and perhaps discussion, again, of some of the bloody rules he kept blatantly disregarding.  The mobile continued to buzz.

"Should probably see who that is," John muttered beginning to lift up on an elbow.

"You're not working today, we have nothing going on yet.  Everyone not accounted for in this bed can bloody _wait_."

"No, really, maybe it's ..."  He was about to suggest Greg, but his sentence was halted as he felt fingers along the back of his neck, beginning to move lightly in circles at the crown of his head.  The hairs under and between Sherlock's fingers made a delicate crackling sound as John could no longer hold himself upright under Sherlock's ministrations.  Not his best idea to reveal one of his inclinations, a weakness, a fondness toward the gesture.  His head eased onto the pillow as Sherlock's touch grew stronger.  A guttural rasp came from John's throat, a long low sound of contentment, something like the deep rumbling purr of a very happy and relaxed feline.

The buzzing mobile ceased, but Sherlock's touches did not.  Pressing up behind the now much more pliant bedmate, Sherlock wrapped an arm about John's waist, drew their bodies together, his hand sliding just barely into the top of the pyjama waistband.  Sherlock was aware of the hitch of John's breath as Sherlock made sure John could feel the urgency beneath his thighs.  When John arched his back, muscles tensed and pelvis pushed both up into Sherlock's hand and then backwards into Sherlock's groin, there were the faintest moans from both as desire built and escalated.  And throbbed.  John's hand first reached back, pulling Sherlock's hip closer, hard, and then as he began to reach his hand upward, seeking to find pleasure in pulling Sherlock's head close, draw his upper body tight.

"Don't," Sherlock said quickly, grabbing John's hand before it had barely gotten to shoulder height.

It was both deflating and bothersome, but John did in fact allow Sherlock to hold his hand still.  He turned a bit, angling to see if something was visibly wrong.  "What's the matter?"

"You'll hurt yourself.  Your range of motion, shoulder flexion, isn't present, particularly on awakening, without first limbering up."  John's eyes drifted closed.  He had, indeed, forgotten, and Sherlock was completely right - moving his shoulder joint in the direction he was intending would have bloody _hurt_ , even this long after the injury.  "Sorry to snap at you, but..."

"No, you're right." His shoulder twinged right on cue in gratitude. "I would have paid for that all day."

Sherlock rocked his pelvis against John again, a tactile reminder that he was still there, still ready and willing.  "This is better, and won't hurt you," he said as he sucked in his belly and guided John's hand back downward, between them, to that anatomical part desperately seeking attention.

"Damn right it won't hurt me."  John's back arched again as Sherlock's warm hand slid down and wrapped around him again.  "And you're going to make sure of it.  Now where'd that lube end up this time?"

++

The text from Lestrade had interrupted dinner, again, and they abandoned it, again, and while John lamented the loss of good Thai food, he was soon caught up in the high-spirited drama.  He and Sherlock had joined Greg and a few others, cataloging the details when Sherlock froze, held up a finger to alert those to cautionary silence.  Meeting John's eyes, he angled his head toward the other room and made a gesture that implied there was someone listening.

"I think the trail grows cold here," Sherlock said, a misleading statement, pointing his index finger up - _one person_ \- and then wriggling both fingers as if running.  He took a few steps on quiet feet toward the doorway, then sprang into the other room, John already following.  "We know you did it, Siobhan, and why," Sherlock said to, unfortunately, the back of the fleeing suspect.  On long legs, Sherlock gave chase, and John following them both, half a pace behind.  At a quick speed, they all exited the building onto the street and took off.

The block was narrow with a natural boundary of a high wall around a manufacturing location.  "Split up!" John suggested, and Sherlock answered a winded affirmative, cutting quickly through a small alley while John stayed on the heels of the fleeing woman.  The fleeing, _sprinting_ woman.

Siobhan led, a few paces ahead as John narrowed the gap.  He was surprised when she headed into a crowded market square, with a few tables, banners, boxes of produce, goods and wares, and people milling about.  "Stop her!" John called, to no avail, and she ducked around a few obstacles.  John sensed that Sherlock should be coming around the block any moment, and just as he was fairly certain he heard the loud approach of footsteps, he was nearly at her back.  She grabbed a banner flying there to draw attention to one of the tables, heaving it behind her hoping to entangle her pursuer.  John managed to grab at her sleeve as the fabric of the banner lofted around his face.  She stumbled, and continued as John stumbled and fell, the banner coiling and rolling about his head, his vision suddenly blocked.  The unexpected darkness was sudden and complete.

He rolled to his back with a sense of absolute terror, his hand coming up to clutch the flag away from his face.  He could feel the rising panic, hyperventilating, heart pounding, stunned to near paralysis.  One hand held her sleeve, still, and she nearly struggled out of his grasp, while the other hand worked to remove the obstruction from his vision, to free his face, but a corner had caught fast under his body, resisted removal for a few long seconds before he jerked it free.  She pulled loose only to be very quickly apprehended by Sherlock, and John was only vaguely aware his hand was no longer holding her.

Sounds only a short distance away came to him indicating Sherlock had indeed not only caught her, but handed her over to another officer from the Met who had arrived, too.  John was distantly cognizant of Sherlock speaking, the snappy, astute words as expected - deductions, understanding, clever interpretation of her motivation, as well as the reason she needed to give her statement to determine her level of responsibility - but John wasn't listening or processing as Sherlock's final arrogant barb fired at the Met, trailed off.  Sherlock's head came into John's line of vision, a crease of worry as John had not yet moved or spoken.  His eyes were wide, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything except what had gripped his mind.

"What is it?" he asked immediately.  "Are you hurt?"  Time was passing askew for him, and he had no idea if he'd been there only a few short moments or the better part of a day.  Sherlock's fingers reached toward John's wrist, feeling the racing, pounding thrum of his pulse, and he looked at Sherlock with intent that his gaze alone would be a lifeline, an anchor, to be clung to and held onto forever, if need be.

John wanted to answer the question, but the words held little meaning, the words stuck somewhere between cognition and speech, and he could only stare.  The block of his vision, the sudden blinding of the item thrown in the direction of his head, had induced a very strong, fearful, _terrifying_ reaction.  A time slide to a partial and devastating memory.

"John?"

He managed a grunt, his eyes linked intensely to Sherlock's even as a few spectators were visible too, including one from the Met kneeling alongside, suspecting an injury or other acute trauma.  Sherlock spoke to John, grasping the banner and flicking at John's fingers of the hand locked around the fabric, "Let go here, mate."  John in fact, still had a death grip on the banner, nails pressing into his own skin.

There was pleading and begging from John's wide eyes to Sherlock's concerned ones, communicating without the words, and could feel a sense of dizziness, of a full-fledged panic attack impending.  John was afraid to open his mouth expecting words and have shrieks come forth instead, opted to keep quiet, keep the fright on the inside.  Sherlock took charge then, releasing John's wrist, to speak quietly but clearly to the few there watching.  "Stand back, we need some air.  And water, immediately.  This man needs water."  He made a small, gestured dismissive motion with his long fingers at the officer from the Met, hoping to buy them a bit of privacy.  He turned back to John, then spoke low and urgently.  "Let go of the damn banner.  Your hand is bleeding already."  Sherlock bent John's elbow, forcing the hand into John's line of vision so he could indeed see the spots where his fingernails were embedding into the fleshy area of his palm, through the fabric now stained with dots of dark red.  "For God's sake, John, breathe the fuck out and _let go_ ," he growled low.  An understanding eye narrowed as he began to connect a few dots.  _"That's an order, Captain,"_ he added in a menacing authoritarian voice, low into John's ear.

In response, slowly John's hand unclenched with the assistance of Sherlock's fingers prying John's apart, and the gasping began, big loud gulps of air.  Calmly, Sherlock pulled him to a sitting position, fairly convinced that since the association was also likely with John laying injured in a supine position, that sitting upright conceivably would help.  He backed off just a bit, watching every nuance of John's behaviour, and attempting to convey that he had everything under control.  Greg appeared then, taking in the scene silently for a bit, then handing Sherlock the requested bottle of water.  He bent down close to Sherlock, "You need --"

Sherlock cut him off, "We're fine. Leave us."  Sherlock didn't often give orders that were followed without an argument or a challenge, but this time, Greg saw enough to respect the dynamics in play between Sherlock and John, stepped away.

Even the simple act of sitting upright was exhausting, and John scooted back a few feet to lean on the post near where he sat.  He rested his head back against the support, took a shaky breath, and closed his eyes.  Sherlock uncapped and pressed the water bottle into his non-bleeding hand.  "I can't," he whispered, trying to hand the bottle back.  "God, I'll choke."

"Would you prefer I doused it over your bloody head?"  Surprised, John opened an eye to confirm and then glare at Sherlock's unsympathetic reaction. He was tightly focused and irritable. "This is getting worse.  You should call Eva..."  Sherlock knew the name of John's therapist just like he knew the first name of the DI, but chose carefully to mis-speak.

"Ella."

"Whatever. Get some help."

John raised his head to make sure the hatred could be unmistakably visible in both glaring eyes. "Fuck you."  He spoke low, clear, and directly at Sherlock.

"Drink the damn water, _doctor_."  Abruptly, he stood, not waiting to see if his directions were followed, and with a flounce and swirl of coat, strode over to Lestrade, who was keenly observing from a careful, sidelong angle.  John gritted his teeth, sitting there now by himself, flexing his hand with the nail-shaped bloody marks on it.  He stared straight ahead, away from those involved in the case, his expression stony and unapproachable, not that anyone would dare come over and risk the unpredictable wrath of his flatmate.

Greg leaned in, told him, "That was harsh, even for you. _Brutal_."

"Yeah, well, give him something else to think about."  Sherlock was standing, arms akimbo, with his back to John, let the corner of his mouth quirk up briefly, made sure Greg saw.

"That's how it is then?  Doesn't look to me like you know what you're doing," Greg uttered softly, and when Sherlock shot him a dirty look, he backed off as Sherlock then turned to the woman in handcuffs who was now seated in the back of a panda car.  He took a few steps in her direction, spoke a few sentences to her on the perils of even well-deserved vigilante justice, and spun on his heel to return to Greg's side.  

In doing so, he caught a quick but thorough glimpse of John, as intended all along.  John was a bit shaky as he pulled from the water bottle, but his face was now flushed pink in anger as opposed to pale and frightened.   _Preferable_ , Sherlock decided, _making progress_.  Greg was watching Sherlock with concealed admiration as he put on a mask of extreme annoyance and walked over to where John was leaning.  "You ready to go home now, or do you need a bit more time to convalesce here in the _gutter_?"

From his towering vantage point, he could take note of the catch of John's breath, of the bunch of muscles at his jaw as they clenched, at the brief grimace of pain as he put the fingertips of his bleeding hand down to help him push himself upright, regain his footing as he rose.  "You're a right bastard."

"So I've been told."  Sherlock didn't offer a hand, didn't hover closely, didn't speak any encouragement, but once John was standing next to him, he cocked his head in an unspoken acknowledgement of respect.

John's left eye narrowed.  "Still have magical powers to summon a cab, yeah?"  There was a moment when either of them could have spoken additionally but didn't.  They walked to the corner, slowly, more of a distance apart than usual.  

"John."  Sherlock held out his palm, but John only stared at it, then stared at him, hoping he was both annoyed and unreadable.  "Your hand."

John held it out, already knowing that the bleeding had stopped and the marks, although self-inflicted and very angry looking, were only superficial and would require no treatment beyond basic soap and water.  Once the cab did materialise moments after Sherlock's arm was raised, Sherlock opened the door and scooted inside, leaving John to enter second.  Both stared out the window most of the ride home.  John finally, grudgingly, knew the next move was his, and plunged ahead.

"Sherlock."

Rather than speak, the taller man turned a bit to take in John's countenance.

John could feel his mouth go dry again, took another swallow of water before attempting another word.  "Thanks for that."

Knowing the words were not easy to speak, and in all likelihood were an admission of John's own perspective of weakness, which certainly added insult to injury. Sherlock frowned slightly in concern, glanced from John's troubled face to his shoulder and down at John's hands before meeting his eyes again, gentler.  "Of course."  He let the kinder sentiments go unverbalised, but John could read that anyway, that Sherlock knew what John needed and would resort to whatever means available to provide it.

Almost imperceptibly, John nodded, looked away, blinking a few times rapidly.  Once the cab pulled up in front of 221, Sherlock grabbed the door handle across John's lap, shoving it open.  He waited until John got out, then joined him.  "I'll get it today," he said, drawing a few notes from his inside jacket pocket and handing payment in through the open window.

"About bloody time," John muttered. 

++

The spreadsheet now had more entries, including responding to military authority, obeying orders under duress, and an extreme reaction to sudden loss of vision, but there was still missing data.  And of course, also missing was the expected request for actual assistance.  John was bloody stubborn.  But consent in this case, Sherlock rationalised, wasn't entirely necessary.  It was for John's own good, and sometimes things had to happen anyway.

Other things came together then as he studied the spreadsheet. He made a few entries, and hoped there would be resolution soon.  Seeing John upset was not pleasant, and the unpredictability, particularly at a crime scene when Sherlock might need him to be _on his game_ , was troublesome.

++

Both John and Sherlock got a bit more independently busy, with Sherlock's involvement in the latest case that kept him out late, up early, and John had a long string of shifts at the surgery, filling in for schedule vacancies.  They didn't see each other too much, for a brief stretch.  Even when Sherlock was home, he didn't come to bed regularly.  Not that that was anything new.  When the current case (which Sherlock declared was a solid 8, perhaps 8.5) was solved, however, they ended up with a much needed afternoon at home.  John fixed a simple, minimal ingredient early dinner, which Sherlock enjoyed (not that he expressed this verbally, but the plate was clean in record time), and John flipped on the latest Premier League match, a replay, but none-the-less, worthy of being watched.  They filled each other in on the various random details of their separate lives overtop the telly action, during commercial breaks, and finally, John could feel Sherlock relaxing.

"So that case, absolutely amazing."  John stretched out a stockinged foot, rubbing gently on Sherlock's ankle.  "That's got to give you a nice sense of accomplishment, putting details together that no one else can figure out.  No eye witnesses, and yet you can reconstruct it."  The tension in Sherlock's shoulders seemed to ease, and he preened just a bit under John's praise.  "Brilliant."

"You think so?" Sherlock apparently craved just a bit more praise, and John felt slightly bad that he hadn't been able to accompany him on much of the investigative end of things, but he had certainly heard about the details, watched from the periphery and over Sherlock's shoulder on the wall of the flat as he arranged and rearranged details.

"I mean, you can take testimony that didn't make sense, inferential data, especially when the injured victim couldn't remember anything about how it ..." John's voice slowed down as the words he was speaking became meaningful on multiple levels "... happened."   John trailed off there as Sherlock looked at him pointedly, waiting for John to make the connection between what had just become apparent with the case and what had gone on with John's injury.  John had only to ask for assistance...

"You'll ask me when you're ready.  And not one second before, I know that."  He closed his eye, leaned his head against the back of the couch, his posture atrocious but very typical.  "You can't stop me from thinking about it, however."

"Yeah, well, I would appreciate it if you keep your thoughts and speculations to yourself.  I'm no closer than I was, and in truth, it doesn't matter much now."  John didn't state the obvious that his nightmares had dwindled down tremendously, that he rarely awoke in a gasping night terror anymore.  Nothing had rattled him in the last week.  Sherlock didn't state that it was not going to be long until it happened again, that whatever triggered John's PTSD or blocked memories hadn't been resolved and was unlikely to entirely go away on it's own.  But he could wait, thinking at some point, it would resurface.

"Noted."  It was the final exchange on the subject.  "God, I'm exhausted."  Sherlock eyed the couch, John's lap, then shrugged, coming to an easy solution.  Sherlock simply maneuvered his long limbs somehow onto the remainder of the couch, tucking his head in between John's thigh and his elbow.  A few adjustments and he seemed comfortable enough.  Idly, John found his fingers drawn to the curls, the tightness of the neck muscles, the scalp that seemed to relax under a few well-placed strokes and kneads.  Over the next minutes of the football match, John rubbed, Sherlock relaxed, and before long, his breathing settled into a slow, relaxed rhythm, his face finally still, eyes fully closed.  His head even grew heavier as sleep grew more imminent.

"You want the bed? I can sleep upstairs."

"Be a good _silent_ pillow and shut up, John."  Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but there was the most adorable little crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the hint of the beginnings of a smile.  "The hand action, however, is perfectly acceptable to continue."

John was torn between focusing on the game and focusing on the form draped across the couch and his leg, settled for letting his eyes flick to the telly when something seemed like it was happening.  Sherlock's face was so relaxed, his head, even asleep, turning slightly into John's touch as he slowly and gently rubbed and then simply cradled.  Almost enough to startle John, Sherlock twitched a few times as his body passed from one sleep stage into another, then landed into deeper slumber, arms, legs, face relaxed.  His breathing was deep and even.  It was peaceful and companionship and all things secure on the home front.  It was, in truth, something John hadn't had in a long time, maybe _ever._  He savored it and enjoyed their proximity, with his eyes on Sherlock with a fondness he hadn't expected on moving in, that was for sure.

Footsteps on the stairs left him with a quick decision, as Mrs. Hudson made her way to the flat.  He could wake him, or just stand up, but truly wanted neither of those options.  They hadn't specifically mentioned to Mrs. Hudson that John's earlier protestation that they would of course be needing two bedrooms was now no longer the case, but it seemed that discovery was upon them, and John left his hand remain right where it was behind Sherlock's curly head.  She came through the door with a plate of scones, still warm, and took in the scene quick enough to then bestow on John a delighted smile.

With quiet tones, she said, "I brought you these."  She pressed her hands together in front of her after setting the plate down where he could reach it.  "He's exhausted, poor dear."  Her smile and expression were something of maternal sentiment, and John was glad that Mrs. Hudson was watching out for Sherlock, too, particularly when his work schedule kept them apart.

"Yes, ma'am, he is."

Both John and Mrs. Hudson watched then as Sherlock groaned just slightly in protestation deep in his throat, wriggling his head deeper into John's lap, expressing thorough disgust at being minimally disturbed.  His shoulders squared to the rest of the room, effectively dismissing anything or anyone other than John.  Fondly, Mrs. Hudson watched the grin on John's face as he noted that even asleep, Sherlock quite clearly conveyed unmistakable attitude.

"I'll leave you boys, then, so we don't disturb _him_ any further."  John nodded, smiled back at her, and she moved to the door again, paused.  "I'm so glad you've been able to keep an eye on him, I've barely had a moment of worry since you both moved in.  And after that warning, I was so concerned!"  The door snicked quietly closed, then, and John felt Sherlock's body stiffen just slightly, and glanced down in alarm.  Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and John petted his temple, sliding his big hand around Sherlock's shoulder to feel him relax again.  Something Mrs. Hudson had said was puzzling, and he would have asked her, but she was gone and Sherlock was snuggling, and he was content.  Picking a scone off the plate to take a nibble, he turned his attention back to the pitch.

Sherlock forced his body to remain as boneless as he could, keeping his eyes unmoving behind closed eyelids, without drawing attention to what Mrs. Hudson had said.  Had someone actually warned her, or was she recalling something that perhaps had been on his flatrenter's application.   _Interesting._  

++

The Met'd been called in on investigating an increase in drug related crimes and distribution.  Sherlock and John'd come close to roughing up a barely coherent drug user, chasing down a bad batch of heroin that had been resold locally and was responsible for a few overdose deaths already. They were hoping against many overwhelming odds to prevent any more.  The latest information had led them to a drug den, where one of Sherlock's homeless network said they should ask for a dealer named Billy.  Prior to going there, Sherlock insisted they return to the flat so he could change out of his dress trousers and shirt, but even in running gear, trainers, and pullover sweatshirt, he was still entirely too polished looking to pass for someone down on his luck or looking to _buy_.  John couldn't stop staring, to the point where Sherlock almost grew frustrated at his look followed by a burst of laughter.

"Perhaps you should dress down occasionally - that just looks absolutely foreign on you.  Completely out of place."  John didn't mind how he looked, but the difference was so startling.

"Relax, and stop staring."  He pulled the hood up just to mess with John.  "I'll get the information."

"Right."  Despite biting his lip to staunch it, John couldn't help the snicker that came out then.  "I highly doubt that."

"Care to make a wager that I leave the den with helpful information?"

"I'll bet you you won't.  I'll offer you a blow job every night for a week as collateral if I lose.  Which I won't."

"And you'll be wanting the same in return, I suppose?"

"If you insist."  John was rather fond of Sherlock's talents.

Billy ended up not being present, and while Sherlock was arguing with one of the miscreants inside the building, John happened to catch sight of a young woman sprawled awkwardly against the wall, not even really propped up in the corner.  The physician in him never turned completely off - partly as a protective measure for Sherlock, who was still impulsive enough to be dangerous on his own devices - and, leaving Sherlock to his own capabilities, he went over to check for signs of life and to evaluate the situation.  Perhaps a simple nudge with John's toe would be enough to assure him she was capable of awakening.

She was definitely breathing, but very impaired and almost unarousable to verbal stimuli.  Stringy dark hair, long and straight, was matted and mussed, over dirty, non-descript tattered clothing.  She was young, perhaps not even twenty, with a slim build.  John was just prying her eyelids open when he could both sense and see Sherlock come to stand behind him, then crouch down at his side.

"Got something interesting there?" 

"Perhaps.  She's breathing at least."  

"No mouth-to-mouth, John."

"She doesn't need it, she's _breathing_."

"Just wanted to clarify."

"I carry a pocket mask, you berk."  He patted his inner jacket pocket, turned his attention to her eyes.  Her sclera was clear, her eye colour a lovely golden brown, but her pupils were small.  "Hey, can you hear me?" he asked, tapping her shoulder as his thumb and index fingers held her eyes open.  There was no response to his words, so he flicked her shoulder with a bit more force.  Her gaze neither focused nor tracked anything she was seeing.  Instead, there was a random, roving, lateral nystagmus present, her eyes slowly turning one side to the other.

"What is that about?"  Sherlock had knelt by him, and was intrigued by the abnormal eye movements.

"Nystagmus," John answered slowly.  "Drug induced..."  He was staring at her face, still holding her eyes open.  "See it often with barbiturates, or anticonvulsants..." his voice trailed off as he looked, watching almost mesmerized as her pupils floated from side to side.

"John," he said quietly, then more insistent, " _John_."

"What..."  And he blinked a few times, holding mostly still until Sherlock reached out to remove his hand holding the girls eyes open.

"For god's sake, let her blink."  Sherlock's voice was low, wondering.  "What is it?  What is it about that that has you stunned?"

"I had nystagmus once.  It's awful.  Dizzying and... I couldn't see right," he paused.  "I seem to remember... " and with that John absently scratched at his right inner elbow with no conscious thought about it, Sherlock could tell just by his dazed behaviour.  "I _can't remember_."

"Listen to me," Sherlock demanded, taking John's elbow.  "Is she all right?"

"I think so."  He glared at John's indecisive answer, lips curling in displeasure.  "Yes," he amended.

"We're leaving."  The tone brooked no argument, and John agreed, then congratulated himself silently on his quick recovery.  He could do this, all on his own, thank you very much.  The association with nystagmus had been both vague and personal, and, thankfully, short-lived.

In the end, Sherlock did absolutely leave the den with helpful information, but not of the sort he could confess to John.  Losing the bet, he admitted to himself, was a small price to pay for the addition to his spreadsheet, this finding along with the revelation from Mrs. Hudson regarding a warning she'd been issued before they moved in.  The drug den may not have yielded what he wanted, exactly, but it ended up helpful.  Later, despite Sherlock's (allegedly) losing the bet, John made sure they both found mutual satisfaction.  Sherlock was not disappointed on either front.

++

"Your vanilla chai, light milk," the barista said to John, "and oolong for your friend."  

"Smells divine, thanks."  John leaned a hip on the counter as the danish he'd ordered for himself finished heating, chosen because he knew Sherlock was guaranteed to steal at least half of, which was primarily the point of ordering it.  He'd discovered creative ways over the past weeks to make sure Sherlock's nutritional status didn't decline.  Creative calorie intake was far more effective than hassling him, he'd discovered. "Worked here long?  I don't think I've seen you before."

"Just started last week.  It's fun," she smiled, brown eyes lighting up and her ponytail bouncing animatedly as she extolled a few of the things she enjoyed so much about working in the coffee shop.  "Hopefully I'll see you again soon?" she said, looking pointedly into John's eyes with a grin that seemed to imply exactly how much, and she turned to the next patron in line.  The sidelong glance at John was not missed by either of them, and most certainly not by Sherlock already at the table a distance away.

He set Sherlock's beverage down, the danish between them, and eased into a chair.  Sherlock ignored the tea, the danish, and was glaring at his phone as if it had single-handedly ruined everything about the day.

"Something wrong? No crimes to solve today?"

"Did you ask her out?  She wanted you to."  His dagger-eyed glance simply looked at John steadily.  "Get her number perhaps?"

"Of course not.  And she was being _friendly_ is all."

"You are an idiot if that's your take on that, her with her _brights on_ and her flirting."

"Brights on."  John quirked his head, wondering what Sherlock was on about, until Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and arched his back, throwing his chest out.  A flash of an insincere smile showed up then and just as quickly was gone as he mock-demonstrated what he meant.  John rolled his eyes, said, "Oh for fucks sake."  

He was practically in a snit, and growled at John, "Go on, then, if you're interested."

John was just as good at ignoring his own beverage.  "You want to have this discussion here?  Now? _Really_?"  No answer, so John pressed on.  "I could see that, justifiably, you might not trust _her_.  She could very well have been on the make, on the prowl, and I guess, come to think of it, you're right.  She was flirting.  It's okay not to trust a stranger."

Sherlock's eyes were unfocused on a spot on the floor as he listened.

"It is not okay, however, not to trust _me_."

John waited until Sherlock, begrudgingly, raised his still-irritated blue eyes to look at him.  Softly, he continued, "I'm not interested in anyone else.  If you would like to use the word committed or exclusive, I'm okay with either.  Both, actually.  I assumed we were there already."

"I thought, watching you, that perhaps you were missing _women_."

"I'm not defined by that.  No, not missing anything, I don't feel deprived or that I'm settling... god, really?  Do I seem unsatisfied?" John's voice went up, his brows furrowed, thinking of all the variations in the way they were learning exactly how the other like best to be _satisfied_. "Because I'm not."  Sherlock was quiet, but John couldn't tell if it was embarrassment or just awkwardness of the subject matter.  Just faintly, there was a flush creeping up the pale skin of Sherlock's neck, and John felt a stab of compassion for his insecurity.  "Hey," he uttered kindly, then waited for Sherlock to look at him again.  It was a brief moment of eye contact before disappearing again.  "Is she looking?"

Light blue eyes flicked over to the counter again, and Sherlock gave a tiny nod, a small smile on his face as he sighed, swallowing hard in nervousness.

"Not that it matters, but I certainly hope so," John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's thigh as he leaned in, very close, sealing warm lips against Sherlock's as his other hand came up just gingerly to touch the angle of Sherlock's face.  It was brief contact but tender nonetheless. "Because this is exactly what I want and exactly where I want to be, you know."  Just as quickly as the public display of affection happened, it was over, but it was a compelling declaration to them both.

John wondered how often Sherlock had ever actually talked with anyone in the past about the status of the relationships he'd hinted at, just given the uncharacteristic hesitancy.  Sherlock dropped his hand to where John's was still on his thigh, and John waited while Sherlock gathered his thoughts, to finally say, "I'm in agreement with committed and exclusive."

A few moments went by, the beverages consumed and Sherlock stealing most of the danish as intended.  The lack of conversation was comfortable as opposed to stilted, with John watching people, primarily Sherlock, and Sherlock searching god-knew-what on his mobile but no longer glaring at it murderously.

"I had wanted to talk to you about something along these lines anyway.  Next time you're by the surgery, stop in.  We'll send off blood samples, you and I.  Presuming everything comes back clean, we could lose the need for protection."

Sherlock didn't answer verbally, but John could tell based on the pupil dilation, bounding pulse at his neck, and the quickened respiratory rate, that he very definitely approved of that idea.

++

John realised someone a long distance away was calling his name, but he is _sleeping, dammit - go 'way_ , resting his eyes, trying to rid himself of this blasted headache, which was pounding sharply behind his eyes and making his very brain throb.  And even bloody Sherlock ended up calling his name after a bit, trying to wake him, the inconsiderate wanker.  

He'd been on a stakeout with Sherlock, watching a flat from across the street, had been there a long time... hadn't they?  It had drawn on much longer than anticipated, John was hungry and chilled, had gotten fed up with the situation.  He'd only closed his eyes for a minute, leaving Sherlock to watch the house... right?  But something had awakened them, _Sherlock_ had awakened him, - _come on John!_ \- that was it, demanding to be accompanied across the street, they were escaping, some gobbledy-gook of Sherlock's typical demands.  John had of course agreed, sprung up to follow him, for to ignore him only meant that Sherlock would still rush headfirst into danger by himself.  That was a habit John hadn't broken him of, not quite yet, but things had improved at least to the point that Sherlock would attempt to bring John along instead of going solo.  He'd rushed after him, and there had been ... someone dressed in black, face painted, holding a gun, no.  Not that...  Two men robbing the house and a third lying in wait.  Sherlock had gestured for them both to stop, but the third man, whom they hadn't seen previously, snuck up behind John, dealt an impressively massive blow to the head, and a knife wound to the lower arm as John tried to defend himself.  This was one crazy nightmare.

 _Someone was still calling for him. "Open your eyes, John!"  A dream, must have been, God, even in his sleep_ , John puzzled, _he was in danger and aggrieved with Sherlock_ , had dreamed an injury.  Which explained John's dream pain - headache and forearm aching, he thought as he lay there wishing they would all bloody leave him the hell alone and let him sleep.  Sleeping was good, sleeping was healing, back to sleep, the dream ends, he reasoned, except for the man in black with the gun was there, waiting, with glittering eyes, and the dreams were muddy, reality and dreamscapes crossed.  John muttered a few curses followed by random phrases requesting that he be undisturbed, and tried to get Sherlock to understand him.  His was the only voice he recognised, and the only face that made sense.  Even his eyes were tired, John realised, too tired to have anything but a bit of blurriness and double vision.  Blasted headache.  That might have been real, John wondered, hazy lazy rising to the surface, bubbles of his consciousness, swimming for the surface, _I can break through!_

Sherlock watched as an ambulance arrived, rather quickly once summoned.  The officers from the Met had already swiftly wrapped up - packaged up the bumbling burglars, photographed the scene, and were gathered down the hall from where John lay, and Sherlock backed off once a not-quite-awake-but-getting-there-quickly John was in capable medical hands.

"Get off me," came the growl from the unruly patient, " _buggering fuck_!"  The typical verbal filters were completely off-line.  While Sherlock had certainly heard John's profanity skills, some military, some upbringing, Sherlock knew, he also knew that John usually kept it to himself or when it was just the two of them.  Sherlock stood watching John's altered mentation cause him to swat at the hands reaching for him, trying to help.   John's feet got involved, lashing out in a kick that missed the target kneeling at his side, frustrating him.  _"Bloody hell!"_

They gestured for Sherlock to step close to his head, try to calm him.  "John, stop it," he said, which of course was unhelpful.  The medic took John's blood pressure (a challenge with all the movement), found it low, decided they would transport sooner, perhaps get an IV in the ambulance en route to the A&E.  Sherlock was in agreement with that, and everyone thought that would be wisest course of action, until they went to place a dressing over the arm wound until it could be properly sutured.  His arm was still bleeding rather steadily, the shirt saturated and torn.  The medic, in order to visualise the wound, took bandage scissors, cut a small slit in the wrist end of John's sleeve and proceeded to rip the sleeve to over John's elbow.  The distinctly loud sound of ripping fabric and John's arm being held down brought a different sound of distress, a frightened, loud yell from the pit of John's gut.  It got the attention of all still present in the house, of a few outside the house, and Sherlock could only watch mute as John sat up, struggled against both medics there trying to render aid.  He uttered a few profanities, sprinkled liberally with the word 'no,' and fought as hard as he could until they managed to subdue him with Sherlock's help.  Slightly horrified, Sherlock could only watch as John continued to panic.  His own mind engaged and he recalled something that had helped John previously.

He got close to John's ear, waited for a break between John's thrashing, and said sternly, in a quiet yet authoritative, feral growl, "Captain Watson, stand down."

John's movements stopped, but his face was still panic-stricken, his breathing fast, his body tense, his head still moving just side to side, searching.  His eyes sought anything familiar, and finally landed on Sherlock's face.  There was a brief moment of sheer terror and then a glimpse of recognition, and then John was back. "Oh my god," he whispered. " _Sherlock_!"  Sherlock maintained eye contact with him as John gathered his wits about him, body rigid but still.

"You're fine," Sherlock said to a clearly disbelieving flatmate. "Need some suturing is all."

Eyes wide, John nodded.  There was a hush over the few people there - those standing, those rending aid, those helping - at the almost instantaneous calming of the doctor, and while it had only been a few moments of theatrics, the change was impressive.  No one commented on the tears that fell silently from the outer edge of John's eye, coursed the quick trip into his hair.

"Let them start an IV, John, you need it.  And an A&E visit."  Another nod and an ongoing scared look and Sherlock could tell there was some serious pleading going on that John did not want to verbalize.  He nodded back at John in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I'll stay with you."  The medic nodded quickly, supplies at the ready next to John as he deftly inserted the IV.  Attempting to be casual and discreet, Sherlock reached out, brushing away the wetness on John's face.

John's shoulders settled, his eyes closed, he exhaled finally and fully, and had Sherlock not witnessed the metamorphosis, he wouldn't have believed it possible to surrender so completely.

++

The A&E visit was actually quick, with Sherlock insisting on quick expedient care and a prompt release of the newly hydrated and sutured man.  They arrived back to Baker Street along with the takeaway Sherlock ordered, knowing that feeding John was important.  When John refused to even acknowledge the upset or the behaviour, Sherlock nodded tersely, once, carefully choosing his words.  "That's fine, if you don't want to talk about it.  But you're being an idiot.  What if shit like what happened tonight were to happen again, and I wasn't there?  What then?  Does it not make sense to at least try to resolve this?"  

The silence between them was heavy, with Sherlock's disapproval and John's bullheadedness.  Sherlock fought the urge to argue, to spew forth facts and rationales and reasons why John needed help.  Instead, he brought John paracetamol and an ice pack, which John took.  "Thanks."  He swallowed the pills, laid the ice over the sutures (which were throbbing and Sherlock probably knew it), and exhaled.  "And when I say that, it's for more than the ice and the meds, you know.  For earlier, that was..." He shook his head just barely, changed his mind on what he was going to say.  "I'll think about it, at least, all right?"

As Sherlock's mind was already interpreting this answer as an early stage of permission, his mouth was uttering, "Fine, whatever you decide."  They shared a glance that was somewhat restorative, helpful, and Sherlock decided to assert himself a bit more.  "Let me know when the pain pills start to work, in case you want something else to think about for a while."  The waggle of his eyebrows and the sparkle in his eye communicated very clearly what he was offering.

While it may have been quick that evening, the release, the abrupt rise in tension and, soon, sweet fulfillment, it was settling to them both, given the underlying and remaining unresolved issue between them.

He was true to his word with the promised distraction, and afterward, John, with the drama and stress of the day, was rather quick to fall asleep.  The dream, when it came, was not a surprise to Sherlock.  What was surprising, however, was that the dream didn't actually awaken John.  Tonight's addition, interestingly enough, was the interactive nature of John's dream-conversation.  It was helpful and poignantly enlightening as John spoke a few sentences, observations still repressed, and curses.  He reacted with fear and enough words for Sherlock to piece together more of what had happened, and actually, what John's mind already knew but his consciousness was resisting.  Sherlock slid carefully from the bed once John was resting in a stage of sleep that was kinder to his psyche.  

He opened the spreadsheet again, wondering if it was probably at the end of it's usefulness, when a few more things came to mind as he perused the lengthy columns of data.  He recalled the ease and surprising quickness of John's being awarded the Military Cross medal.  And that it had been Mycroft who had personally delivered it.  He thought about the mobile phone, and how "too good to be true" that deal had been for John, now that he thought about it.  John was very qualified for his job, and couldn't exactly recall how John had heard about it and if the hiring had been remarkable in any way - he either hadn't asked about it or had deleted it.  Closing down the computer after these entries, most with question marks at the end of the line, Sherlock now had a few other things to delve into.

++

They'd shared dinner and drinks at the pub with Lestrade and a few more tolerable officers, had an enjoyable time, John downing several pints, and Sherlock nursing only water claiming he needed his wits about him.  John's arm had healed remarkably, and he'd removed his own sutures with a bit of help from Sherlock just that morning.  Their days had been full, the nights comfortable with some changes planned to turn the upstairs bedroom into an office for them both, making more usable living space on the main floor.  John didn't bat an eyelash after dinner when Sherlock volunteered again to pick up the cab fare that was now due outside their flat.  His mobile buzzed, and he offered only, "Text from Mycroft, I'll talk out here so you aren't subjected to any of my foul language, wouldn't want to _corrupt you or anything_."

They both chuckled, having already expounded and celebrated John's colourful language over dinner, and he nodded, leaving Sherlock at the kerb.

Mycroft answered on the second ring as John entered the flat and shut the door.  Sherlock offered no pleasantries, no set up, no warning, simply ambushed him over the phone.  "Are you aware that certain medications such as midazolam can cause nystagmus?"  Dead stillness at the other end.  Sherlock stood watching the window up in the flat, hoping he had a few minutes before John grew curious and peeked out. "Are you aware that midazolam may also cause incomplete retrograde amnesia?  Oh, and here's something even more damning: I found a very interesting research study funded by apparently _your bloody office_ on the effects of muscimol in combat when used in conjunction with benzodiazepines?"

There was still complete silence on the other end of the mobile. Then the clearing of a throat. "I have no idea what you are prattling on about."  Sherlock let the stillness remain, hoped it was heavy around his brother's shoulders.  Mycroft spoke again, "You're speaking nonsense, please do try to be clearer, brother mine."  There was a moments hesitation, and then Mycroft's voice was the same as ever as he asked, "Or are you under the influence again?"

"Completely sober on all counts.  I've had time to put together quite a few details, you see.  And I'm on to you."

"I don't know what you think you may be _'on to_ ,'" this was said with a bit of an edge, "and I don't understand your earlier ramblings."

"I also know that people can be bought, as can their silence, particularly people who follow orders.  You have too many bloody resources at your disposal."

"Sherlock."

"No.  Shut up, Mycroft.  I _know_.  You forget that I know not only how you operate, but what you are capable of."

"I have no idea what you are talking about.  Whatever happened to John W-"  And here he paused, the weight of his word choice hanging in the balance over the phone, the shocking gravity of his error, the realisation of his mis-speak - Sherlock had only hinted, dabbled a few details, but said _absolutely nothing_ about John Watson - so completely uncharacteristic that Sherlock would wonder later if perhaps he'd done it intentionally.  Perhaps to ease the inescapable guilty conscience.  If that was the case, it was the first he'd ever been aware Mycroft even bloody _had a conscience_.

"You had no right."

"Sherlock - "

"Shut it," Sherlock had half an eye on the window, still no curious flatmate peeking through curtains.  "I'm just telling you that I know.  And this conversation is far from over."

++

He hung up, pocketed the phone, and turned to find John standing only a short distance away there in the doorway, his dark eyes glittering, his visage angry.  Sherlock minimised the reflexive big swallow, deep breath, telling himself nothing conclusive or culpable was said, this is fine, this is _nothing_.  Sherlock hesitated just a moment on the steps, reassuring himself that John could not possibly have heard that, and even if he had, this one sided end, the final words of the call would not have been incriminating anyway.  "Know anything, Sherlock," John was saying, "about why we have been inundated with mice?  Looks like you may have left a stash of your favorite biscuits in the back of the closet upstairs?  We apparently have an entire family that has eaten their way through your food and taken up residence there."

His mind whirled, unsure if he'd had anything to do directly with that.  He didn't remember stashing or hiding anything recently, except ... oh, maybe he had to save trips down the stairs to the kitchen pantry, and if not, this was a fantastically opportune diversion.  "How would you feel about getting a cat, then John?"

"Not on your life.  Living with one nuisance that can crawl into my lap is enough for me, ta."  The back of John's head even seemed angry as he turned and stomped into the kitchen.

A sigh of relief after John was out of sight, Sherlock reasoned, was entirely permissible in this case.

++

Unsurprisingly, John and Sherlock were able to each blow off enough steam with vibrant, annoyed conversation in the flat and an animated tossing of Sherlock's wayward slippers John tripped over, ending in quite the physical catecholamine surges, a brief chase around the kitchen table, and finally a quick and dirty coupling.  It would have been a close call to determine who finally grabbed whom, but certainly both were wholly committed, seeking, craving both physical connection and satisfying release.  It was Sherlock, however, that pulled John up behind him, twisting, and unbuckling and removing the barriers of clothing, who ended up leaning urgently against John, bent over a random piece of furniture that proved useful beyond conventional means - this time, John's favorite chair.  There were a few moments when he'd forgotten the dilemma of this predicament, lost only in John's tactile skills, rising, circulating, engulfing and then throbbing, pulsing, and spiraling into much needed relaxation.  Both went down in not only flames but in a much needed catharsis.

Sherlock, with an inkling of the likelihood of a fraternal late-night visit looming - _he considered an 83% likelihood of such an encounter although Mycroft on the defensive was not quite as predictable as his usual arrogant self_  - straightened his clothing, looked around the flat.  "I'll join you in a few minutes, couple loose ends to take care of."  Sherlock kicked the offending slipper under the couch as John stood with an arm against the wall as he caught his breath.

John brushed his own sweaty hair from the back of his neck, choosing to remove clothing rather than fix it.  Gathering his trousers and shoes (hoping Sherlock would notice that cleaning up after oneself is not necessarily a hardship), he nodded, sighed loudly, took a few steps toward the hallway.  When he paused, Sherlock studied him, then had to smile as John muttered, "Long as your loose ends do not involve the care and keeping of mice in the flat, take your time."  John returned the smile in his typical one-sided tilt, added, "And get your damn slipper out from under the couch."

The bedroom door snicked shut, his mobile buzzed.

**A moment, if you please.**

Mycroft's car sat just down the block, and as Sherlock stepped outside, the rear door opened, then Mycroft emerged to stand at the kerb.  Sherlock chose silence over any of the million things he wanted to yell at his brother.

Mycroft stood quietly as well, the lateness of the hour lending itself rather nicely to mostly a deserted street environment.  "I thought a personal visit was expedient.  To make sure you didn't wrongly engage in a poorly thought out conversation regarding your mistaken fantasies."  

Sherlock snorted at that word.  "You had no right."

"You know me well enough, brother, to know that I have nothing further to say.  Even if there was something relevant."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as he watched his brother's attempts at stoicism, at hiding each tell that Sherlock had grown up learning to uncover, to sleuth out, to detect.  He'd spent many an hour learning exactly how best to elicit various responses guaranteed to sharpen his own astute observation skills.  And Mycroft had just shown not just one, but _two_ indicating a falsehood - the slightest nasal flare on the left nare only, and the movement of Mycroft's tongue inside his mouth, visible only to Sherlock by the slightest depression of the submental triangle as his swallow was hard, a failed attempt at dupery.

"Of course you know exactly what I'm saying." Sherlock lowered his voice as a pedestrian ambled by. "And if I can figure it out, you can believe John is not far behind, although he may not ever put it all completely together because he doesn't know you well enough yet. There have been some triggering reminders about his pre-injury events, the trauma, Mycroft, and do not think for a moment that he will be anything other than justifiably livid.  This could all blow up and ruin everything. I'm tempted to offer you up as a sacrifice, it would serve you right." He let the threat hang there for a moment, longer, until the eye contact grew overlong.  "Thanks for popping by."

Sherlock gave him a pointed look without moving, initially, testing the waters of Mycroft's resolve.  Then he seemed to be ready to leave Mycroft to his own musings.

"What would you have me do about this matter -- about what you _think_ you know?"

"Right now, you can settle for knowing you didn't get away with it."  Sherlock's eye narrowed.  "You _failed_."

Surprisingly, Mycroft did not engage on the word failure, simply waited, then seemed to change his mind about responding.  "Lestrade has shared with me that you and John are getting along well, that he has been very good for you."

It hit Sherlock then, exactly what was behind the motivation, the totality of the scheme. The pieces fit together, from even things like John's history, his temperament, his physical attributes.  "I hate what you did to him."

"I have no idea what y--"

"Oh, for God's sake, _shut up_ , Mycroft."  The wave of nausea hit as he recalled John's suffering - physical, emotional, all of it - unnecessary and avoidable.  He breathed deep to calm the symptoms.  "What are you going to do about it?"

Mycroft smiled, thinking to himself that the pre-John Sherlock would already have flown off the handle, stalked off, punched something, or gone in search of a quick fix in a syringe.  Sherlock noted the smile, eyes narrowing in fury.  Mycroft raised a hand to the driver, and his door opened, ready for his entry.  "The question is, what are _you_ going to do about it?"

Sherlock had no answer for that right away.  Right at that moment, death seemed too kind.

"By the way," Mycroft said, the hint of a smirk again visible, "overall, I would definitely not consider this to be failure."

++

He knew he couldn't go back to bed just yet, awaken John in this hyper-vigilant state.  He paced, stalked, breathed, and turned the matter on it's head from several angles.  

The text was first, and that was easy:   **First, fire your marksman. The idiot shot and damaged _a surgeon's_ dominant shoulder. Inexcusable error**. 

There was no response, and Sherlock didn't expect one, exactly.  He deleted the text, was finally calm enough to seek John's slumbering company, didn't wake him as he slid into bed and felt slightly accomplished for that feat.  

He awakened while it was still dark with John's early twitching in his sleep, rapid eye movements visible in the moonlit dim light seeping through the window. A tiny whimper of distress sounded in John's throat as Sherlock could hear John's breathing accelerate and catch.  A dream then, on its way.  He rolled, gathering his long arms around John and pressing up against him.  The tremors shuddered several times, and John stiffened once, his arms initially resisting the way Sherlock pulled him against his body.  Then, as if on a gentle exhale, the tension left, John's entire body became pliant once again, the dream abated, crisis averted, and Sherlock was quite aware that John had fallen back into a more deep sleep. Traces of the impending nightmare were gone.  His breathing evened, steady rise and fall of his chest, skin cooling, heart rate settling back to baseline.  Sherlock nuzzled John's head with the front of his chin, inhaling the scent of familiarity and comfort, the faint hint of sweat, and let his hand slide around John's ribs, tucking his fingers into the spaces between them.  The point of maximal impulse, where John's left ventricle thudded normally, was palpable to Sherlock's fingers where they were.  It was a reminder of life, of steady on, and hope for another day. 

And in that next day, would certainly arise more questions and choices.  More keeping quiet for the time being.

A text arrived on Sherlock's mobile the following morning just after John left for work.  The text survived only long enough to be carefully read and then deleted:   **An unforeseen complication, an unfortunate oversight.  But employment was terminated, as requested.**

Sherlock was restless for most of the day, returning home late afternoon.  John was still at the surgery for a few hours yet, and Sherlock crossed to his computer, clicked on the spreadsheet, entered the password to open it, and _deleted it,_ wiping all copies and temporary files from existence.

++

The latest case from Lestrade involved the investigation of a cold murder scene, with odd evidence and conflicting stories from a distraught widow, who'd found his body.  Details as to cause of death and evidence at the scene had been sketchy and confusing although well documented, and Sherlock only had to scan the home briefly before asking to speak with the wife.  Two pointed questions and she was sobbing that she hadn't meant to do it, but that he'd had an _affair_ \- her ramblings grew louder and more distressed.  Lestrade waited while Sherlock stepped further away from her to tell them that her husband had confessed to a lengthy dalliance with one of her best friends, that had recently ended, permanently.  Although he'd ended it, wanted reconciliation, the wife was unable to forgive, get over it, or even put it out of her mind.  Unwilling to bear his betrayal, she'd been poisoning him over the last few days until he'd finally succumbed.

Lestrade had just finished making a few notes as she, still upset, was led away to be read her rights and give a formal statement.  "It's sad," Greg said, pocketing the notebook, "that he confessed at all.  There was nothing really gained by it, and look how it turned out?"  Everyone knew about his own marital troubles, a wife who'd been unfaithful and unable to reconcile with him, so for him to say that was profound.  "I think, if it were me," he continued a bit morosely, "I'd rather not have ever known."

The scene wrapped up, and most of the officers had already left.  Greg stood at the door, waiting for them.  Sherlock nodded, gestured.  "We'll be out in a moment, just one more thing I wanted to take a look at..."  Greg let the door close behind him, and John looked over at Sherlock questioningly.

It could never be said about Sherlock Holmes that he shied away from opportunity, that he didn't face things head on (unless they involved his own personal emotions), that he let, perhaps, a moment get away from him.  He wanted no regrets, to seize the day.

"So a question, John."  He adjusted the collar and the scarf of his long coat, let an ankle cross the other as he stood, leaning against the wall, hoping to convey casual, non-threatening discussion.  "If something like that had happened to you, not an affair, but something that would likely hurt you once you found out, would you truly rather not ever know, or would you want disclosure?"  They were both well aware that the violence had only occurred because of the confession, even given that the affair was over, ended, done.  The confession, the information, was what had brought about this unpleasant ending, with a death, a marriage ended, lives forever ripped apart.

John waited, uncertain, hearing just enough hesitation to realise there was much more here between them than just the surface question, and just looked back, openly, at Sherlock, wheels turning.

Sherlock clarified. "It can't be undone.  It's over."

John found his voice.  "What exactly is gained by telling someone something hurtful?" He looked over his shoulder at the home, where the flashing lights bounced through the windows into the dark rooms, off other vehicles and buildings. "It didn't work out well here."

"Would you want to know, John? Would _you_?"  When John remained silent, Sherlock maintained eye contact and offered something else.  "You said a long time ago that perhaps it was better not knowing.  Remember?"

"But you're offering me a choice now."

"Yes."

When John hesitated, Sherlock watched him carefully, and the non-verbal exchange was rather informative.  Apparently John could sense the undercurrents, the implications, the severity of the question. "I think I would, yeah."  The answer spoken, John's confidence grew, and he reiterated, "Yes.  I would want to know."

Sherlock nodded, brows creasing just slightly. He looked off into the distance. "I was afraid you might." The words went right to the pit of John's belly, and his shoulder ached even as his breath caught. "We're walking home."

Unspoken:   _I have something to tell you and the long walk will be necessary. Privacy. Physical outlet of activity. Repercussions. Fallout. Collateral damage control._

John felt his resolve grow, embraced it, could feel the strength in every muscle, bone, circulating in his blood.  His uncertainty dissipated. _Bring it._

They stepped outside, and the door closed behind them.  From the vantage point of the front porch, they could see the police cars, curious neighbors, and other officers tidying up.  While they almost never were physical, let alone _affectionate,_ in public, John was surprised when Sherlock reached out, snaking his fingers into John's there on the porch. A slight tug had John leaning against Sherlock's side, and John grew more alarmed when Sherlock pulled their bodies close, their sides bumping, and he felt the soft press of lips against his temple. It was past dusk out, but not that dark, with illumination from streetlamps and a partial moon, and they were certainly not alone.

John didn't mind, but it was just so unusual that he breathed a quiet, "God, you're frightening me now. Have you been diagnosed with a terminal illness?"

"No. But you might find that preferable..."  Lestrade approached then, businesslike, and Sherlock let his sentence trail off.  He spoke preemptively.  "Tomorrow, Greg.  John and I will be in tomorrow."

John knew he was in trouble, could feel it even as his shoulder could always tell within a few hours that a major storm was on the horizon, just from that one word, _Greg_.  Sherlock never called the DI by his (correct) first name.  Raising a hand in farewell, Greg merely nodded, moved on to another task to be overseen.  John summoned the resolve he'd just had, didn't back down.

"You're sure.  You would want complete information."  John could feel his pulse bounding in his neck.  "Even if it wasn't easy."

"I'm sure."  He didn't speak lightly, in light of the magnitude of the case they'd just witnessed and the manner of Sherlock's delivery and carriage, the handholding, the upcoming conversation.  The storm was brewing, clouds gathering, the acrid smell of ozone in the air, and they were surrounded by the sense of impending sizzle of lightning.

They started off, John quietly nervous.  Within a few moments, the sad scene and the familiar faces were behind them, and they were swallowed into the anonymity of a casual street block, mostly unpopulated at the present.

"I'm fortunate to have met you, John Watson."

John felt his jaws clench, resisting the urge to put both hands around Sherlock's shoulders and shake the information out of him immediately rather than be the mouse trying to stare a cat down while the cat plotted which way to best torture the rodent.

Sherlock's fingers separated, twining between John's.  Also an unusual position for them, but comfortable.

"Are you glad you met me?"

"Of course I am."  John answered quickly, assuredly.  "Of course."  He shrugged as if that should have been a non-question.

"Even if it was your injury that brought us together?"  They both knew the technical truth behind that question, and both heard the message underneath it as well:  there is more to the story.

The look exchanged then, pale blue eyes looking steadily into John's darker ones, a forged commitment.  The steps slowed but the hand grasp never loosened.  A bit of a breeze lifted the curls on Sherlock's forehead as he met John's surveillance, curious, inquisitive.  The stalwart soldier, with keen eyes that prowled for the enemy, combined with the competent physician, always assessing, ready for danger, looking to verify health and security and take care of business - these meshed into a strong and capable man who chose to care for others but could be deadly if he wanted.  Sherlock could feel the long hem of his coat bat against his calves as they walked slower now, the wind swirling just enough to make its presence known.  John's face was open but cautious, ready for almost anything, or so it seemed.  Sherlock hoped so as his words sunk in and John's steps slowed entirely to a halt.

Slowly, clearly, John spoke. "Sherlock, what exactly are you saying?"  John's voice was authoritative, brooked no argument, demanded an answer.  "Tell me _everything_."

"You're asking me?" Gently, he directed his earlier comments back to John for clarity, a reminder that Sherlock had indeed wanted to help and had been waiting for John to merely _ask_.

"Yes."  

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muscimol is an actual medication. Liberties have definitely been taken with the details surrounding it's administration to Capt. Watson. 
> 
> He mentions carrying a pocket mask in the community to eliminate (or greatly reduce) the risk of exposure to disease during CPR. They're pretty cheap on Amazon in case that information is helpful.
> 
> I guess I should just resolve that the chapter count is going to be twice as long as expected. This was getting too big for me to handle (I edit the crap out of things as I read, and to get to the current point, I "have" to read as I go, so hence the final chapter splintered again in two (I think this makes four, actually, divisions of the alleged last chapter.
> 
> Oh well. I'm enjoying the way the John and Sherlock have taken control and are now guiding the ship into port. Mutiny at it's finest, when the fictional characters have not only commandeered the vessel, but keep finding ways to take a minor detour. They also remind me that there are still loose ends from chapter 1 that I need to weave back in.
> 
> Typos drive me crazy - if any slipped by, please let me know! Kudos or comments greatly appreciated. If I missed something, please let me know. Thanks for following along and for all the wonderful comments and encouragement along the way!
> 
> Happy endings just around the corner!


	7. Confronted

**Got something for you.  8 pm.** And he listed the address.  

He'd showed the text to John before hitting send, and John had smiled thinly, approving.

"If you want the element of surprise at your presence, leave your mobile here.  I'm fairly certain, just based on the timing of when that showed up, that there is most likely a tracking app installed, possibly a device inside.  I have one in mine, but I allow it only because I can work around it when necessary, leave it somewhere odd.  Throws him off."  He was tempted to add that he had a burner phone in case it was necessary, or that he could easily work the system to his advantage, but opted not to draw attention to the similarities he and his brother had.  Sherlock also left out the detail that in the past, having Mycroft able to find him in those rare emergencies, had proved beneficial.

John hedged, remembering the mobile plan and the representative who swapped out his old phone for this one, the cost-neutral upgrade, the apparent lies behind _that_.  He shrugged, "Makes sense, I suppose." He pocketed the device.  "But nope, it doesn't matter this way or that.  His knowledge or ignorance of my location, or anything else, has no bearing on anything I do from here on out."  He took a moment, looking around at his home there on Baker Street, considering all the things that had transpired that led him here.  That led him to Sherlock.  His shoulder twinged, and he could see Sherlock studying him, probably knowing exactly where his mind was.  "Here's what I was thinking about tonight."

John and Sherlock sat close together there on the couch, while John filled him in on what he hoped to gain from the evening ahead of them.  It was a short conversation, and John was uncharacteristically, utterly unreadable.  He was in survivor mode, similar to that necessary state of mind in Afghanistan, where he'd occasionally had to perform surgery in terrible conditions on his friends, can't-think-about-it or I will cease to function. John was more complicated than he'd ever been in Sherlock's opinion, and the unreadability of his affect was a variable Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with. There was certainly rage. Fury. Cold, hard, steely unquantifiable anger.  But there was more than that, something tempering that, and Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on it, or name the anomaly.  It was almost scarier, sensing the impending eruption.

John wasn't quite sure what to do with himself either.  Checking the time (again), he'd run his hands through his hair (again), sighed (again), and Sherlock decided that he'd had enough.  Rising, he crossed quickly to John, took both hands to secure them from his restless gestures and nervous activity.  John briefly resisted, looking down, then stilled as Sherlock spoke.  "We don't have to do this, you know."

John leveled a look at him.  "I disagree.  I do need to do this."  There was a moment where John licked his lip, catching it between his teeth as he met Sherlock's eyes, torn between wanting to explain and wanting to never discuss this again, ever.  "And if the tables were turned, you would feel the same."

"I would have already taken care of business, if it were me."  It was a small comfort to John that Sherlock was so offended on his behalf, that he expressed the anger, and sought retribution - but John was having no part of that.

"This is your brother, or have you forgotten."

"Irrelevant."

"No, it isn't.  Good thing, then, that I have a plan."  There was a set to John's jaw, of resilience and determination, that Sherlock couldn't help but admire.  There had certainly been rage when they'd discussed this during that long walk home, but even then, there had been a morally strong character in John - first a low reactive threat ("I could bloody kill the bastard for this, you know") and then a quick progression through some stages of grieving.  The denial had been hardest for Sherlock to reconcile, actually, as the integrity inherent in John Watson couldn't quite wrap his head around the underhandedness of what hand had been dealt to him.  And now?  Now John was simply resolute.  He was accepting on one level, but had every intention of calling  Mycroft's behaviour out, of confronting his wrong, face to face.  "It's time, we should go."

John had insisted on neutral territory - nowhere they had ties to or any other memories regarding - not Baker Street, not Angelo's, certainly not Mycroft's office or residence.  He briefly thought of meeting at the surgery, or the back room at a small cafe, opted for Sherlock's suggestion instead.  Their destination was a location from one of Sherlock's homeless network connections, a street friend.  It was a newly deserted and not yet run-down former boutique shop of smaller rooms set up as if it were a home business.  It was empty now save a few furnishings - sales counter, table, chairs, empty clothing racks, and boxes.  Just to be safe, Sherlock had requested the man keep watch over the building, prevent entry if possible, alert them if he couldn't, at least once they were all inside.  It was a short cab ride for them, an irrelevant car ride for the other party.

Just before leaving, Sherlock carefully let his hand brush down to the center of John's back.  John had been expecting it, was actually surprised it hadn't happened earlier, and Sherlock was not surprised to find the hard bulge at the small of his back.

"You sure you need that?"

"I'm sure I _don't_.  But having the choice is something I do need."  Sherlock seemed to nod in understanding at that, so John continued.  "It's affirming, being reminded that I have a _choice_."  He left unsaid the obvious counter-reference to the events that had brought them all to this.

"Loaded?"

"Of course."  John considered something, angled his head.  "Worried?"

"Not at all."  Their eyes met, held.  "Should I be?"

"Of course not. Not planning on using it."  A short time later, all was in place.  John went inside while Sherlock nodded to his friend, who was surreptitiously crouched down comfortably along a block wall up the street, and Sherlock waited just inside the door.  Within a few silent minutes, Sherlock saw Mycroft's car and driver, watched his brother approach the front door.  "Hello."  Sherlock was solemn, and Mycroft his usual reserved self, tipping his head in greeting.  There was no bag, no umbrella, no mobile in his hand, just quiet eyes watching and alert.

"Interesting place for a meeting."  He took in the details of the rooms, looking for John probably, Sherlock supposed, and without a word, Sherlock latched the door behind them, led the way through one room into the adjacent one where John would be waiting.  The building still had electric, and there were a few interior rooms lit to minimise attention from the street.  The building itself was deserted, and street traffic by this hour had dwindled to almost nonexistent, so it was quiet both inside and outside the building.

Mycroft looked his usual imperious self, and stood stock still, studying Sherlock with lasered focus from the doorway.  Saying nothing, he turned and entered the room where he knew John waited.  He said nothing.  

"Sherlock?"  There was not a warble or a quiver in the word, but Sherlock could hear the much-lower pitch than Mycroft's usual tone.   _Nervous, then.  Good._ Sherlock didn't answer, simply allowed Mycroft to his own speculations.  

The interior room was small, sparse, with a small rickety table, a smattering of chairs, all illuminated by a harsh fluorescent fixture overhead.  Empty hooks hung on the wall, the art having either been removed or stolen.  The focus of the room, however, the energy, stood 5 feet 7 inches tall across from the doorway, watching.  His arms were relaxed at his sides, jacket open, denims and button-up shirt - his usual garb.  While his dog tags were hidden under the shirt, also as per usual, he was acutely aware of them now and all that they stood for, and all that had transpired, what had been taken from him.  John's expression was as neutral as he'd been earlier, eyes front, biding his time patiently as he watched the pair enter.  If Mycroft was startled at John's presence, he gave no indication of it, simply took it all in, calmly, returning the eye contact before looking pointedly away.  Mycroft then gave one pointed glance back across the room directly at John, his expression unreadable, uncertain on the inside but intending - and succeeding - to be unruffled on the surface.  John stood immovable, his own eyes locked on Mycroft, seeing him as if for the first time, and unsure of what to make of him.  John was eerily calm, serious, almost serene.  At John's nod, Sherlock sat, silently, eyes wide and observant, an onlooker.  He simply waited, exhibiting unusual, and probably very chafing, patience.

"Have a seat."  John spoke quietly as he maintained his position.  Standing.  Dominant.  Authoritative.  In control.  A presence worthy of obeisance.  

Almost imperceptibly, Mycroft's jaws clenched and there was the slightest twitch of his left eyelid, a few rapid blinks, and a moment of defiant hesitation. John raised an eyebrow, also very slightly, a nonverbal order to shutthefuckup and _sitthefuckdown_.  Mycroft sat.

John cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, shoulders square.  It was parade rest yet his body was screaming high alert. The slightest crinkle near his eye conveyed thinly suppressed emotion.  "You know why we're here, of course, a matter involving you and something that happened to me.  How shocking, Mr. Holmes, to discover that what looked like an accident, actually was a traitorous plot, orchestrated by you, quite intentional.  Risky.  And quite a cover-up attempt.  Surrounded by an impressive tangled web of deceptions, all to further your own personal agenda."  John stopped there, watching Mycroft.  He was acutely aware of Sherlock's presence and attention in the room, avoided looking at him, but knew Sherlock was watching both of them, as well.  "What's this, then, _Mycroft_?" The use of his first name added to the carefully constructed conversation John was aiming toward.  "I think I've earned the right to call you that, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned closer, a hand coming down noiselessly on the battered table and his head approaching Mycroft's as he sat. "Nothing to say, hmm?" 

Mycroft was well aware that Sherlock's skill of deducing the slight nuances that were an impossibility for anyone else to see, knew he was under the microscope, as it were.  Sitting slightly more erect, Mycroft raised his chin, "I have no idea what on earth you are referring to."

John leaned back then, turning, a hand brushing idly against the back of his own neck, then unhurriedly straightening his collar.  "Of course you don't."  He crossed to the door, detouring unexpectedly from what he and Sherlock had discussed.  Hand on the knob, he turned to Sherlock, smiling apologetically as he gestured to the open doorway.  "Excuse us please."  Sherlock remained seated a few seconds, confused, puzzled, until John raised an eyebrow at him and growled a little more forcefully and in a lower volume, "Out. _Please_."

In short order, Mycroft and John were alone in the room, and John closed the door with a resounding click.  It was almost a benediction on their meeting.  "Now then, where were we?" John drew out the chair near to Mycroft, lowered himself into it. "Oh, that's right, you were about to tell me _everything_."  Mycroft had the good sense to look just a bit nervous.  John's voice took on a cold, frightening chill. "I've got most of it already, but you're going to confess anyway.  Every bloody detail.   _Now_."  When he was met with a calculating look in return, he considered the lengths this man had gone to in order to protect his brother. "You can start with how many files you went through before selecting mine.  And end with what you're going to do to make things right again."

++

Mycroft hesitated long enough to ensure John knew he was being somewhat assertive, wrestling for power to defuse what could be a tenuous - _dangerous_ \- situation.  He was still grappling to maintain the tiniest sliver of control, even if he was down to mere seconds of silence before he opened his mouth. "I'm sorry, John. That is the proper place to begin."

John heard him, and could only help but wonder if he was being played, if there was any remorse at all, or if he was simply trying to minimise repercussions, mitigate the damage.  John blinked in acknowledgement, hearing the message behind the words and knowing right then that Sherlock's brother was more than a little bit on edge.  He kept his tongue, ascertaining that it would keep Mycroft guessing and cautious.

He continued. "Then yes, I'll tell you what you want to know," and then there was a slight play of the cards, a roll of the die, as he continued, "at least, what I am at liberty to disclose."  

"I dare say, you're at liberty to reveal bloody all of it.  You owe me that much, at least."  The tightly coiled rage, the tension of the wire just before it snapped, the potential energy of the detonation was thick in the air, the hiss and crackle of the air before the lightning strike.  They could feel it.  The elder Holmes sibling could feel the twinges of anxiety in his breathing, his neck, his posture even as he worked to counteract the slightest response, grateful Sherlock was not in the room to witness every single bit of it and then use it to his advantage.  

Exhaling slightly, he met John's eye, sizing up the integrity of the man and his previous missions (he'd refreshed his memory by perusing John's file before his arrival), and current position as a GP.  The reviews and evaluations of his new boss were stellar, and he had even heard details about some of the more complicated patients that John managed carefully in the outpatient setting, preventing inpatient admissions as well as preventing physical deterioration.  Sarah, the director, had fallen prey to a member of Mycroft's staff posing as a news reporter on military life after active duty, and had been rather forthcoming about the clinic's good fortune in securing a skilled doctor such as John.

He could tell by the way John moved that he was armed, and he already knew John could be lethal if the situation called for it.  Deciding on a rather brazen approach, he sized up with more clarity the man opposite him.  He didn't expect his life to be in jeopardy unless he provoked him (and that was _not_ happening under any circumstance), and so he waited until John had minimally relaxed, sensing that there would be cooperation and not defiance.  "But Captain Watson, or rather, _John_ , you should recall that you were offered a promotion,  _Major_.  You could have - _should have_ \- taken it, and avoided all this nonsense."  John hadn't been terribly surprised at the earlier apology, but this brazen and slightly aggressive statement did knock him back a bit:  "I'm not quite sure what you were thinking when you turned it down."

++

Sherlock was soundlessly pacing the front room at intervals, reading the history of the room, it's previous merchandise, and former employees in the dust patterns, faded sunlight stains, and the random means the building had been emptied.  He could faintly detect the scent of the last homeless person who had slept over in the corner on a few layers of folded carpet, and knew a prospective tenant had come with an estate agent to tour the building based on shoeprints across the room.  His mind was split, neatly categorised into the present room and an awareness of the encounter just down the hallway.  There were voices, calm voices spoken in a low register, and while most of him wanted to listen in, he resisted the urge.  The conversation lasted somewhere between nine minutes and nine minutes thirty-five seconds, depending on whether he wanted to include the first thirty-five seconds of silence once he'd stepped from the room.  There were smudged fingerprints, he noticed, over the switchplate from several different people and genders, and he was intrigued enough in the distinct thumb print pattern that he was wishing he'd had fingerprint lifting tape with him, when he heard the door down the hall open.  

Mycroft emerged, alone and for the most part unruffled except for the slightest hint of colour at his neck.  Serious, wordless, and introspective, he looked at Sherlock for only brief seconds, nodded imperceptibly, then moved unhurriedly to the door.  He endured Sherlock's intense scrutiny in the brief transit across the room, then exited into the street.  A brief gesture, a raised arm, and fourteen seconds later a car arrived, Mycroft climbed in, and both drove away.  There had been no expression, no smirk, no wan smile, nothing.  Sherlock watched the bright tail lights until they turned and disappeared.

Sherlock looked down the hall, hearing nothing, seeing only an expanse of wall in the open-doomed room where John remained.  He weighed his options to allow John time on his own versus inserting his presence into the situation.  Still undecided, he had only taken a few paces in John's direction when John stepped into his line of sight.  Their eyes met, and John's step only slowed enough to be slightly startled to see Sherlock there, then he brushed past him.  Sherlock had taken in everything from the long glimpse at John, however, and hesitated only long enough to file it all away - flushed cheeks, resolving anger, a faint residue of moistness in his eyes (understandable, given the degree of loss thrust upon him, and now it had been faced head on), the betrayal (and Sherlock didn't have all the details there, but clearly his brother hadn't dirtied his _own_ hands), and the necessary protective distancing from other emotions, for now anyway.  He wasn't surprised that John would immediately be ready to leave.

Indeed, John was waiting at the exit, his hand poised on the knob, waiting for Sherlock to follow.  "Ready?" he asked needlessly, and when Sherlock nodded slightly, John continued, "Let's go home."

++

John volunteered very little for the duration of the trip back to Baker Street, and Sherlock didn't speak or touch.  Once they'd arrived, to Sherlock's puzzlement, John secured a roll of silk medical tape from his medical bag at the entryway and ripped off a few lengths.  While Sherlock watched, he pointed to each of the hidden cameras that Mycroft had confessed to, three in wall outlets and the last secured in a piece of wall mounted hardware. Mycroft had offered to let John dismantle and destroy them immediately, but John had opted to have someone come in the morning to remove them completely.  But for tonight, he wanted them covered, and the tape was an effective, and quick, solution.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, squelching the notion that he had underestimated his brother, vowed not to let that particular thing happen again.  He inspected the last camera before John covered it with a tired motion.  "I swept the flat for them when we moved in, found a few tucked into hidden places, albeit poorly hidden ones, decoys apparently.  Didn't think he'd go to the trouble or expense of those," he shook his head, impressed, though he would never admit it out loud.  "He's a meddlesome nuisance."

"The technology has gotten much better... " John found he didn't care at the moment about the surveillance, thought about uncovering them and giving Mycroft a real show, was too unmotivated to do so.  "It doesn't matter now."

"The cameras, no.  But the rest of it does matter - we both know that."  The evening was playing out with interest to Sherlock, the culmination of many weeks of angst and hardship and John's torment.  John still didn't have many actual memories of those hours, but he had found comfort in knowing what had happened, what had transpired, even knowing the involvement of so many others, game players and game pieces on Mycroft and Sherlock's giant, living chess board.  The strategy, John had fussed the word at Mycroft earlier, and he didn't even bat an eyelash, choosing to simply let his silence be his agreement with John's assessment.  Watching John and trying to figure out what would be best, what John would find most helpful, Sherlock knelt on the floor just in front of him.  When John continued to only stare off, unseeing, Sherlock let his fingers rest on John's leg, just the faintest reminder that he was not alone.

The silence was difficult for Sherlock, not knowing exactly what John wanted and needed, what would help him define his current situation, what ultimatums had been drawn if any.  The silence there in the sitting room on Baker Street became heavy in the silence, an aching that sharpened with each thought, movement, or breath.  John's eyes closed, his shoulders slumping a bit, his expression one of tangible pain, of despair, of defeat.   _Sherlock hated it_.  

"Did you know he compromised Ella somehow, as I think about it now.  When I first met him, he used the exact phrase she wrote in my file, the _exact one_.  I chalked it up to coincidence at the time."  He rubbed his forehead, adding, "I could have asked more about it, although it doesn't specifically matter now, and I'm not sure what he gained by that."

"It was a final level screening, before Stamford got involved."  John could only roll his eyes at that, agreeing.  "And I remember," Sherlock continued, "she encouraged you to move in here."

"That she did."  He thought perhaps he would call her, but he couldn't see getting deeper involved.  He was fairly certain Mycroft must've had Ella cornered for information.  Wearily, he could only sigh yet again, recalling Stamford's role as well.   _Bloody Mycroft and his connections_.  "I'm not feeling especially flattered that I passed muster and was deemed acceptable to be bloody permitted into your presence.  I must say, it doesn't feel like much of a privilege right now."  John's eyes were closed.  "Although he did admit he went through _hundreds_ of files before settling on mine."

Any other time, Sherlock would have taken great fun in poking at that comment, at arrogantly using that as proof they were good together, that good things had come from it, that John was the best of the best, the cream of the crop.  He knew, however, that now was definitely not the time for that.  Part of him was saddened to realise that there may never actually be a time for that.  And then the thought came, _hundreds?_  Mycroft was either extremely particular or Sherlock was extremely hard to please.  Likely, both.

"You are aware he meant well, don't you, John?"

"Of course he did, he meant well _for you_.  He was trying to protect _you_."  John sat, ill at ease, trying to determine how much and in what manner to fill Sherlock in.  "Bear with me, I have no desire to regurgitate the whole conversation, even if I wanted to.  I have never been this knackered - feel like I've been run over by a bloody lorry. However, know that I enlightened him regarding things he failed to consider when he did this - my career, and that is less important to me, not nearly as critical as the lives that could have been saved, the injuries fixed, the prevention of life-altering disabilities - it left my unit short a surgeon.  Training a new one takes _months_ , and there are likely many men who are without limbs or without quality of life due to insufficient resources as a direct result of this."  He gestured at his shoulder, slightly disgusted at the senselessness.  "Men suffered, women, families, even the staff that was left behind was affected.  That matters a lot, and he failed them all."  Forcing himself to remain calm - having saved the high emotion and thinly veiled rage for the actual meeting with Mycroft - he met Sherlock's concerned and thoughtful look, shrugged.  "He didn't particularly like hearing that he had blood on his hands."

"I'm sure he didn't, typically he steers clear of getting personally involved with the dirtier work."

John stared ahead, feeling Sherlock's perusal.  "I gave him a few of my thoughts on restitution."

"He's fortunate you didn't give him more than just a few thoughts, you realise."  Torn between quiet frustration on John's behalf at the injustice, the tragedy of what had befallen John those months ago, and the gratitude of their ... _relationship_ now, Sherlock just couldn't let John's earlier comment slide by, however, without redirection.  "Your career, by the way, _not unimportant_  at all.  Not by a long shot."

John leaned his head back, closed his eyes.  He could easily fall asleep just to escape these highly charged past few hours, he thought, very easily indeed.  "I'm glad this evening is behind me, behind us.  Still seems a bit surreal, if you ask me."  He breathed a few times, deeply, cleansing his airways and lungs of carbon dioxide, filling alveoli with fresh oxygen, to do the process all over again.  Out with the bad, in with the good, he considered, that oddly inappropriate - although relevant - little saying.

Sherlock wanted details, wanted John to keep talking, hoped it had been a cathartic meeting, but it seemed John was _done_.  Instead of pressing for information, he asked, "Want something to drink?"

"No.  I want  ..."  He turned tired eyes, pleading and dark eyes full of emotion, to Sherlock.  He was unable to finish the sentence.  He let a short burst of laughter escape, then clarified, "Mostly I want to fall asleep, not by myself.  In case you had other thoughts, that's definitely going to have to wait." 

His explanation wasn't necessary, as Sherlock was already nodding, getting to his feet and holding his hand out for John's.  He wanted to fill the holes, bridge the gap, restore the hurt, take away the pain, offset what his brother had set in motion, to make it all right, ease the fear, and simultaneously crawl inside John's very skin.  "Come. I'll take care of you. Whatever you want."

++

The days settled into more of a usual routine.  The upstairs bedroom had finally been fully, completely, and irrevocably transformed into an office complete with a separate area for toxic chemical research.  John had insisted on appropriate ventilation and other safety measures, so felt that, hopefully, risk would be minimal.  If John'd had any nightmares, they were not of the ilk that would either waken him or alert Sherlock to their presence, which was a nice change, although John continued to be a little quieter, and still very fatigued after his discussion with Mycroft.

One morning, Sherlock brought tea to John while he was still in bed.  He opened one eye when he heard Sherlock's approach, and the corner of his mouth twitched.  "Again?  Already?  You are really rather insatiable, you know."  It had only been a few hours since they'd found pleasure and fulfillment in each other's bodies - hands and mouths and _more_.  Sherlock had fallen asleep, one hand relaxed and belonging and rightfully territorial over John's ribs.

The answering grin was one of the sweetest things John had ever seen, something he still wasn't used to, something that felt very much like a privilege, given that Sherlock was careful and judicious in the bestowing of said smile.  "No, not that, although..." he set the mug down, glanced low on his belly, "could be persuaded, I suppose."

"I'm probably not up to another round just yet either, but thanks.  And for the tea, too."

"Can I ask something?"  The sudden seriousness in the set of Sherlock's eyes gave John pause.

"Is it going to make me angry?"  He sat up then, enough to grab the mug, sip, steel himself for what he hoped was going to be mild by comparison, given some of Sherlock's other revelations.

"Shouldn't."  John gestured for him to continue, the warmth of the tea spreading in pleasant waves from the center of his chest, outward.  "Did he offer you anything, anything personally, something to compensate you for your losses?  Maybe increase your pension or some such?"  Sherlock was watching John carefully, making sure he wasn't becoming irritated.  "House in the country or --?"

"No.  And I would have been insulted."  He reached for Sherlock's hand.  "Remember what I tried to tell you earlier, that in some ways I have already been compensated.  I never would have met you otherwise, although I would have preferred an online dating service, truth be told.  But you help make up for anything I might have lost."

Sherlock was quiet then downright skeptical.  "John, you do realise there's a major flaw in your logic."

"Pretty sure there isn't."  Sherlock was amused, whatever his big brain had conjured up, and John was intrigued, idly scratching at the gap between his shirt and pyjamas.  "Ok, tell me, what is it?"

"Online dating," he began, nodding.  "I dare say if you were placing a dating service ad ...  Well, finish this opening phrase, 30 something, male, blond retired army doc, in search of ...?"  He let the sentence trail off.

John giggled as the truth of Sherlock's observation hit home.  "Oh, of course.  You're probably right, back then it would have probably said female."

"I would have been very unlikely to have answered that, you know.  My dating profile is rather specific."

"You don't have a dating profile."

"If I were creating one, then."

"Your virtual dating profile was created by your brother, you know."  John couldn't help expressing the fact, and raised eyes as surprised as Sherlock's were to stare, entertained and slightly inappropriately amused by the revelation.  "Without your consent."

Sherlock took John's statement as permission to volley one back at John along the same topic.  "He did a pretty good job, then," and Sherlock watched carefully John's expression, wondering if the joke was too soon.  Judging by the loud groan followed by the facepalm by the hand not holding the tea, it apparently wasn't.  "Selecting you over _hundreds_ of others."

"Agreed, even if his methods were somewhat ..."

"Underhanded?"

"I was going to say subversive.  Evil, perhaps."  John could feel his breathing relax as it occurred to him that there was no upset, no pain at the moment other than the aching that plagued his shoulder some of the time, mornings in particular.  Their hands found a casual hand-clasp, and John raised the twisted-fingered combination to his tea-flavored lips, pressed gently, let them relax back onto the bed.

Sherlock was staring at their joined hands, squeezed once, allowed the silence to just become something comfortable and peaceful.  There was a settled air to John now, a quietness, and in part he knew it was the finality of knowing, of grieving something taken from him, accepting that they were both going to be okay with it.

"I did, however, ask for something.  I will fill you in on the details when he gets back to me on the feasibility."  Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John was ready with a raised hand and a glare that seemed to silence him.  "Patience, please."

++

John's shifts at the surgery were typically busy but not chaotic, but one week, he had late nights and angry patients and demanding family members and not nearly enough patience for Sherlock's antics when he arrived home to find entirely too much chaos in the flat.  Sherlock had been working a case with Lestrade, a difficult one as yet unsolved that was proving taxing and frustrating.  Tempers from both of them were short.  Finding that Sherlock had used one of his medical journals - unread, thank you very much - as a desk blotter as he'd investigated various ink stains, just set him off, and the argument quickly escalated into a verbal sparring match.  Sherlock finally picked up the journal and lobbed it at John, who, reactively and very out of character, picked it up as it to throw it back.  His shoulder, protesting, gave him enough pain that he grimaced, dropped the journal, and stormed away from Sherlock's quick expression of concern.  He'd taken a few steps toward the bedroom when he stopped.

"Leave me alone, it's fine."  John seethed.  "No, actually it's not fine, but leave me alone anyway."  His menacing tone, harsh and low and deadly sounding, had grabbed Sherlock's attention enough that he stopped short.  John continued, then, "Look, I'm headed out, need to walk off this --" and he gestured at the flat and his shoulder and his head "-- and I'll be back.  A bloody nice, cool-down walk."  His teeth were gritted together.

"Fine."  Sherlock had turned away from him, was studying the wall of clues although not really seeing them at the moment.  "You don't want company."

"Not especially."  Things had calmed, somewhat, although there was a lot of heat and energy and aggravation in both of them, their voices, their tension, their restraint.  "Need anything?  Might swing into Boots."

Sherlock glared, first at the wall, then at John, then at the mess in the flat.  He didn't answer.

He'd started off walking briskly and quickly uptown and toward the bridge, then slowed his pace gradually, perspective restored at least a bit.  Doubtfully he wondered if Sherlock was in a destructive phase still, or if he had cleaned up out of deference to John's annoyance.  Turning his steps east, he realised that he did find the walk and the fresh air therapeutic.  Cutting it shorter than he'd expected, he texted Sherlock. 

**walk was nice, do you want to meet me?**

**thank you, no. SH**

**all right.  I'm sorry, you know.  Bad day all around.**

Sherlock didn't answer, although John could tell that the text had been read.  He stopped at one of the corners, watching the bustle of people still out and about, and he stopped to read the latest edition of the newspaper at the stand.  The case Sherlock had been working on, of course, was still headline worthy.

He read a few details, knew how much it bothered his flatmate when something escaped him, when he considered that he was missing something.  He composed another text,   **You'll get the case solved, you always do.**

All that greeted him was silence.

Then more silence.

He wasn't ready to give up, so picked up a few of Sherlock's favourite sweets on his way past the artisan bakery on the corner, and sent another text,   **see you soon.**

There was a piece of him that was mildly concerned given the non-communication, and his steps were quick and his mind unfortunately working against him as he headed home.

John arrived back at the flat, and given the state of Sherlock's hair - wild and misty, just the ends a trace damp - he'd been outside in the wind and the light rain.  As John hung his jacket up next to Sherlock's, he brushed the shoulders of Sherlock's Belstaff to find that they were damp.  "You go for a walk too?  I did invite you..." and by then John had come closer, got a whiff, a revelation, of what Sherlock had been up to.

"Smoking, really?" John arched an eyebrow, unhappy, as he turned questioning eyes to Sherlock.  He set the sweets bag down on the table in the kitchen, disappointed.  He'd been hoping for an 'all is well' kind of a wrap-up to the day.

"Clears my head, sometimes."

"Did it tonight?"

"Not especially."  He slid pale eyes over to look at John, decided to continue.  "Be aware that my first choice was ... something much stronger and slightly less legal than a cigarette."

"Well, trust me, I don't view that as particularly good news, you know."  He scanned the room, wondering where, if at all, he'd hidden some of the things John had hoped were relegated to his distant history.  "Is the flat clean?"

"At the moment, but I have connections," he dismissed the ease with which he could apparently obtain whatever he wanted.  "You should be aware that I still consider myself an addict."

"I don't see it that way at all, and neither should you.  It's been a long time.  Don't give in, Sherlock.  You're stronger than that."

"It was still what I really wanted.  An addict is an addict."

John took a steadying breath, hoping to convey a message both calm and considerate.  "Are you threatening to relapse, that somehow because you used to do something, that somehow gives you the right to indulge, to give in to a moment of weakness?"

"You wouldn't understand, when you need a fix, you need one, and it matters little how long it's been."  He turned on John, then.  "It's like you being a doctor.  Or a soldier.  Or the child of neglectful parents."  They'd never talked further about what John had shared that night, the difficult childhood, and it gave John a hint of warmth at Sherlock's assessment, that he remembered it, acknowledged it, even though it was not entirely proving Sherlock's point.  "It's part of you, and you can't change it."

"You're full of shit, and we both know it.  Part of you, certainly.  But it doesn't define you unless you let it."  Sherlock seemed a bit surprised at John's vehemence.  "Your genius brain knows exactly what it's doing all the time, and if you would stop rationalising your behaviour, you could --"

"Shut up.  I'm just saying, reminding you, that you should be glad a cigarette was all it was, tonight."

"I. Should be. _Glad_."  John repeated, shaking his head.  "Don't do me any bloody favours."

"It's a good thing, your influence."  He kept his eyes low, spoke quietly, as if confessing something bad.  "I would think you'd appreciate that."

"It's got nothing to do with me, so, no, I don't accept that.  You're better than that, stronger than that, with self-control that you often choose to ignore, but it's there."  He snorted with just his breath, conveying frustration.  "I watch you play people all the time.  Totally in control and choosing very carefully how you manipul --"

Sherlock cut him off with a grunt of dissatisfaction, then.  "You have no idea what it's like, John, to be chained up and bound to something, to be at it's mercy... " and Sherlock stopped, listened to what he was saying.  His cadence slowed down a little as he spoke, and he turned slightly surprised eyes to John, as if his own words were highly enlightening, "... and completely overwhelmed..."

The eye contact that they held was many things - on a level of understanding that neither had been on before with each other, and Sherlock even opened his mouth a few times, lips parting as if he had more to say, but changed his mind.  They held for quite a while, blue eyes into dark eyes, a level of comprehension that didn't require putting it to anything other than a hand clasp from John to Sherlock's shoulder.  Even their breathing eased as the rain picked up outside, and things grew much less tense there in the flat.  John finally broke the silence, in a friendly and relaxed tone.  "I'm going to bed.  Come join me when you're finished out here, all right?"

Sherlock nodded, his posture more relaxed and his eyes warmer.

With a smile and a bit of an inviting gesture, he threw back at Sherlock the same words he'd been so comforted by previously, after his meeting with Mycroft.  "I'll take care of you.  Whatever you want."  He hesitated, then.  "And then tomorrow, you can order me a replacement issue of that journal you destroyed."

++

A letter arrived a few weeks later.

_Dr. John H. Watson,_

_Captain, retired, 5th Northumberland Fusilliers, Afghanistan, RAMC_

_Thank you for your most generous donation on behalf of the Soldier's Charity, part of the Help for Heroes campaign.  The investigation you requested was completed with utmost care and discretion, with aid only from the unit CO and careful inquiries of the chief surgeon.  As you are well aware, a listing of specific soldiers were painstakingly identified as in need of benefit, of compensation, for services rendered while a medical unit was left mildly short-staffed for a period of time last year.  The tally is as follows:  one death related to the possibility of shortage of medical aid, although the ranking officer believes the injury would likely have been mortal within a few weeks regardless of the immediacy of care rendered, and four soldiers with permanent disabilities of varying degree, all of whom have been honourably discharged with full rank, pension, and transition assistance to civilian settings._

_Your commitment to actions of integrity are greatly appreciated, and as requested, the gift to the former soldiers and/or their families has been done completely anonymously.  While the gift of course does not restore injuries or death sustained in service to country and in defense of freedom, compensation demonstrates acknowledgement of the sacrifices of these brave men and I assure you, they were received with deep, heartfelt gratitude.  On behalf of each family recipient, I thank you very much._

_Very Truly Yours..._

 

John set the letter aside, his heart full.  Mycroft had made good on his promise, for restitution, for those who had suffered collateral damage.  John left the letter on Sherlock's laptop, gathered his mobile, choked back the lump in his throat, and left the flat.  He and London and an aimless mind-clearing walk had suddenly appeared on his agenda for the afternoon.

His steps had led him on a very random and meandering stroll across some of the streets he'd never been on, and an indistinguishable amount of time had passed when he found himself not far from Baker Street, near the park.  He wasn't ready to return home, lowered into a vacant bench.  It wasn't long, or so he thought, before a tall shadow came into his vision.  He was holding a to-go cup of coffee, handed it to John.

"You found me."

"You wanted to be found."

"Yeah, I did."  He looked at Sherlock until the emotion threatened to spill over, and his blinked quickly.  Swallowing nervously, he stared off, mostly unseeing, into the depths of the park.  "Good call," John said, sipping the beverage gratefully, enjoying.  "Ta."

Sherlock joined him on the bench, long legs and long coat folding into long lines with surprising grace.  "Good call on the Soldier's Charity, too."

John eyed him over the brim of his beverage, considered his answer.  "That was actually your brother."

"No.  He would never had initiated that without your influence."

"I pointed out the soldiers who may have had a less favourable outcome related to the medical changes in my unit," John offered, then amended, "my former unit."  John turned sideways in the bench, suddenly glad for the company and to be able to talk about this, express what his thoughts had been centering around as he'd walked.  "I brought the matter to his attention, informed him that helping those soldiers was his moral obligation.  I may have demanded discretion along the way."

"Not bad for a person with trust issues, John," Sherlock let his knee touch John's there on the bench, affirming and unifying, "trusting Mycroft."

"I do not think I will ever trust him."  Admitting that fact slipped out easily, truthfully.  "But what he did for those injured," John began, hearing the thickness in his own speech, "that was a good start, I suppose."  His knee pressed back into Sherlock's.  "He came through."

++

There in the kitchen, Sherlock was on the brink of a strop, arms akimbo, as he faced John with unhappiness.

"I can't for the life of me imagine why you invited him."  John glanced over, stared at him and his predictable annoyance.  "You.  Invited him.  What on earth, John?"  Sherlock watched - and fussed - as John slid the poinsettia to one side on the table to make room for a serving dish, wine glasses, and a newly opened bottle of Merlot.

"Because it's the right thing to do.  I invited my sister, too, and you can be damned sure it wasn't because I wanted to."

"We didn't have to do this.  It's a lot of hassle and unwanted expense to hang out with people we really don't want to be around."  Sherlock was starting to wind up, now that the evening was upon them, and John knew, given the missing detail Sherlock was not yet aware of, that he would have to placate him a bit.  Or the evening had the potential to detonate at any moment.

"You agreed.  Your support would be helpful, you know."  John handed him a bottle of wine and the opener to set alongside the table.

"I did agree, but I didn't expect you to go through with it."  Sherlock checked out the label.  "You sure you want this out with Harry?"

"She hates wine, drinks only the hard stuff.  There's water, it'll be fine.  Just, please don't ... hassle her too much?  If she even shows up.  But I invited my sibling, and yours."

"I can behave, truly," he clarified when John shot him a skeptical look.  "Well, I can _try_.  Perhaps.  Especially if I get to pick the activity for us later," he said with an impish smile, which was quickly returned by John.  He passed him a few other plates, full ones, empty ones, to set out as well, as Sherlock continued, "Mycroft is much more fun to provoke, but I can tone it down for your sake.  He won't stay long anyway."  And he muttered something about the inherent annoyances of being related to any of the Holmes' lineage, but caught sight of John's face, now bearing just the beginnings of concern.  "What?"

John could sense the fear rising up within him, and had been dreading this moment of truth since he'd issued the invites a few weeks ago.

"John."

He held up a hand, took a step back but the kitchen wasn't big enough to remove himself completely from the radius of his long-armed flatmate.  "I may have invited someone else."

An eye narrowed.  "You invited my parents, didn't you?"  Sherlock was already shaking his head in disbelief.

"It's Christmas," John offered weakly.  He could see Sherlock's mandible clench, lips thinning, and knew he was holding in the tirade of frustration in deference to John's sentimental Christmas gathering.  "I wanted to meet them.  You should want them to meet me.  And we should _tell them_ we'll be out of the country for a few weeks."  Details were still pending, but John was hoping for early spring.

"If you are going to invite them to a gathering at our flat without telling me, I may want to re-think our plans."

"Which is exactly why I got all of those details in writing, as you recall."

"You had your mouth on me, and your fingers..." he tilted his head to the side meaningfully, because of course John remembered quite well where his fingers, mouth, and tongue were.  "It was made under duress and would never stand up in a court of law."

"You can't back out now.  The money is set aside for the tickets, I told the surgery I'll need time off."  Later he might question the timing of the touch, but he reached out a hand to firmly take hold of Sherlock's pectoral muscle, grabbing lightly, then slid his hand down to cup the back of Sherlock's thigh, pulling him closer.  "I would be glad to re-enact the whole mouth-finger escapade after everyone leaves, if you want."

"Oh, I want.  But all promises of good behaviour are out the window.  My parents, John, a bit not good.  You're going to wish I'd been hatched in a lab with no family ties whatsoever by the end of the evening."

Not too much later, as the plates and wine glasses were filled and then emptied, John could actually admit that Sherlock had been right this time.  Mrs. Holmes had just lowered her eyeglasses to peer over them and down her nose at Sherlock.  The question she'd just asked hung in the room, even gathering the attention of Mycroft from his mobile.  It would have probably interested Harry except that she hadn't shown up.

_"When are you going to put that doctorate and your intelligence to work and finally make something of your life?"_

Sherlock hadn't looked hurt, hadn't particularly responded to her at all, but after a few seconds of eye contact with his mum, he glanced over at John as if to say, _see, I warned you._ His eyebrow cocked just a bit, too, and John took a deep breath as the awkwardness of the room grew.

"Make something of his life?"  John repeated her words, speaking low, calm, and every head swiveled to look at him as he spoke to Sherlock's mum.  Apparently an outsider standing up to any member of the Holmes' family was worthy of undivided attention.  "Do you have any idea what he even does?  All the people he's helped, the justice that has been enacted, the rights wronged?"  John decided he would be more than delighted to defend Sherlock, all the more pleasure if no one else was going to be arsed to do so.

She waved a long-fingered hand at that, chuckled, "Oh, I do admire loyalty, John, truly I do.   _Bra-vo_."  Her voice was polished, diction clear and dripping with condescension.  "But are _you_ aware of the potential he's demonstrated, his genius and  _brilliance_  wasted, pursuing these trivial inconsequential matters?"

"I didn't know about the doctorate, although I'm not surprised."  He shot a quick look at Sherlock as if to warn him that he would be hearing more about that later.  "But I wouldn't change a thing..."  John had many more arguments in his arsenal about solving murders, and was just getting started when she interrupted him.

"Clearly you're not a parent, dear," she cut him short, condescension dripping from her words, "or you would only want the best for him, want fulfillment and a real sense of purpose."  She glanced around the room, a shocked expression as she looked from person to person as if clearly perplexed that there was such ignorance and misunderstanding so apparent.  "Like Mycroft."

Mycroft snorted then, disdainfully, which apparently Mummy Holmes tolerated from the favoured son as she seemed to preen as Mycroft glanced her way.  He addressed John then as if they were the only two in the room.  "You do recall, John," he began, "that I tried to warn you once about this family and the Christmas dinners being unimaginable."

"I should have listened, obviously."  Much of him thought about excusing himself, leaving the flat, and letting the bloody Holmes's deal with each other, opted to stay, to stake his claim, assert his territory.  To his surprise, Sherlock seemed completely unruffled.  "A mistake I won't be making again."  He could feel the need to take charge before something extremely regrettable occurred.  "Now," he moved to the sparsely decorated tree, "the sooner we get to exchanging gifts, the sooner my highly-degreed flatmate and I can attempt to 'make something'" and he resorted to air quotes there, "out of the remainder of this evening."  Letting the inference of his words mimic Mrs. Holmes' words earlier, he kept calm and let the delivery carry his distaste for what had been uttered.  He reached for one of the gifts which happened to have Mycroft's name on it, determined to press through, and if their kin didn't find out about the trip he and Sherlock had planned, that was just fine with him.

The most surprising gift under the tree, tagged jointly for John and Sherlock ended up being from Mycroft.  Two brand new, factory sealed, just released models of the latest mobile phones. John considered the tracking devices that he knew were still in both of their phones, considered the meaning behind the gesture from Mycroft in offering anonymity and a relinquishing of control and monitoring.  While Sherlock barely acknowledged it, John turned to look at Mycroft, returning the steady blue-eyed gaze.  The eye contact lasted long enough for Sherlock to finally clear his throat as a prompt, at which point John looked away, but not before telling him, "Thank you." 

When the flat was finally emptied of non-residents, John couldn't stop the laughter at Sherlock's expression in the now quiet flat, the distinct air of peace again.  His arched eyebrow that clearly said I-told-you-so.  "I told you.  I warned you.  And I'm warning you, don't do that again."

John shrugged, uttered a breathy, "I promise, never again."  He let a hand trail up Sherlock's arm.  "So, PhD in Chemistry, yeah?"  Sherlock smirked, waiting.  "Not Astronomy, seeing as how you deleted much of it."

"Yes."

John tapped an index finger to his mouth, considering.  "What did you really want your degree in?  I'm guessing the entirety of Chemistry was probably easy for you and done only to appease your sires."

Sherlock looked pleased at John's statement, smiling mischievously. "Entomology."  John nodded, having no trouble believing that.  "Took a few classes already.  It's not actually a useful doctorate, either.  Just fascinating."

"Is now a bad time to mention to you that I am allergic to bees?"

"You can write yourself a prescription for an epi-pen, then, just in case we ever get a hive."  He took John by the elbow as John was trying to restore order in the flat, put food away, bin the trash.  "Leave it, who cares.  I thought they would never leave, and now we're alone, and you said something about mouth, tongue, and fingers earlier?"

++

A fax came over at the office, ended up hanging on the bulletin board in the waiting room.  John's last patient of the day had canceled, and he enjoyed the unexpected time to finish what was needed, and as he waited for the rain to let up, he read the missive.  Knowing that he was ineligible, and that there was most certainly a shortage, the idea started as a somewhat crazy thought and, once the rain let up, he chewed on arranging some details for the duration of the short walk home.

Sherlock was just arriving as well, dripping wet, and more than a bit pepped up from the very recent solving of the last case.  He shed wet clothes everywhere on his way to the shower, and John, sighing, hung them up then opened his blog.  He'd become so engrossed that he didn't hear Sherlock approach until he was standing right behind him, startling him no small amount as he'd been typing.  "Blood donors...?" Sherlock asked.  "We didn't have a case about a blood transfusion, although that would be spectacular if we did, at least a 7."

John tilted in his chair to watch Sherlock toweling off his hair.  "No, no case.  A request."

"On your blog?  Not your usual posting, you know."  A few drops from Sherlock's head lightly misted John's face, and Sherlock read with a small degree of disdain, " _I'll be there, stop by to say hello, h_ _ope to see you!_ "

"Well, true, but we might as well use it for good."  He stretched, shoulders still kind of aching from the repetitive motion and the intensity of the sitting.  "I already called the sponsor, and am going to help out that day with the collection."  Sherlock moved to the couch, flopped down onto it.  "There's a drive end of next week."

"That'd be fun, of course," Sherlock said, and John knew he meant it.

"We're not allowed to donate."  One eye opened, and John decided to clarify rather than have Sherlock ask.  "There's a rather long list of exclusions, including receiving a blood transfusion since 1980, which lets me out, and IV drug use ever, which lets you out.  And the NHS Blood and Transplant also refuses any men who have sex with men, actively within 12 months."

John could almost see the thought processes in Sherlock's expression, where he wasn't sure if he should be instantly offended, or angered, or to simply shrug it off.  He finally asked, "Does that make sense to you?"

"It's cautious."  John could have cited the stats on HBV transmission and the window period, on HIV stats and the NHS's concern over CJD and vCJD, but opted to not add fuel to the fire, so to speak.  "They just want the safest possible blood supply."

"A shame, really.  I would have loved to hassle the phlebotomist."

The day of the blood drive found John wondering what he had been thinking as he watched the amount of details, prep, and set up work required for this type of happening.  The event sponsors were thrilled at the volunteer physician, and as it was, the line of people waiting to donate even as John arrived (early) was daunting.

The coordinator walked him through the various stations, from registration to the private screening, to the reclining donation chairs arranged in threes, to the refreshment area.  He knew the gist of the supplies, but the review was helpful as they reviewed the order of tube collection and then the use of the agitator scale.  They showed John the flow, then, noting that upon arrival, donors were given the mandatory fluid intake and by the time the first donors were through that process and then confirmed to be donation candidates, John was already seated, supplies at the ready, and he got to work.  The patients were soon hooked up, the cannulation process easier than John had remembered, although the gauge of the needles were still rather large.  He had grown accustomed in Afghanistan to placing large bore IVs in soldiers who were severely hypovolemic, hemorrhaging, or with very low blood pressures due to shock.

His station seemed to always have a waiting line, and one of the hostesses finally told him that a few people had come in requesting to see him, to be processed through his station, having heard about the event through his blog.  He had only shrugged, "Fine by me, long as they don't mind waiting."

He'd been a few hours into the day when he rolled his stool over to the next patient, seated in the chair, and he greeted him, then raised his eyes to the newcomer's face mid sentence ".... so thanks for coming, let's see about your arm veins ..."  The words trailed off as he looked into the pale blue eyes of one Mycroft Holmes.

He had somewhat of a satisfied smirk as he took in John's surprise.  "Dr. Watson."

John considered that being able to multi-task was beneficial, then, as he took in Mycroft sans jacket, sleeves already rolled up even as his mind whirled.  Deliberate, obviously, waiting for him, for not drawing attention to himself as he was greeted, screened, and seated.  "Let's see, then," John said, as he had been all morning, demonstrating what he wanted by extending his own arms in order to show off both antecubital veins.  "Fists, please?" he asked, rubbing gloved fingers lightly over both right then left basilic and cubital areas.  "Left handed, yes?" John said, remembering as well as noting the tell-tale callus on his left middle finger, and when Mycroft nodded in agreement, John gestured for him to recline, leaving his right arm accessible for the procedure.  "Confirm your name and date of birth, please."  John checked the tally mark on the form as Mycroft complied.  It was reminiscent for John, the two patient identifiers, a reminder of the times it had been him offering that information when he was a patient.  The parallel was not lost in him that he'd been a patient because of the man in front of him, who had just performed the same process.  Even as quickly as the thought came, John was reminded that it was okay, that he'd survived that, that he'd risen above it.   _Move on, Watson_.

John wrapped a blood pressure cuff about Mycroft's upper arm, began the scrub even as his eyes flicked toward Mycroft to find him studying John with a seriousness that would have made most other people nervous.  "First time donor?"  John reached for the large bore 16 gauge needle set and tubing, bag, and ripped off a few fresh pieces of tape.

"Indeed."

Inflating the cuff then, John placed the phlebotomy stick in Mycroft's hand.  "Just hold that for now."  John wiped the vein site again, donned fresh gloves, laid out everything needed, then hesitated over Mycroft's arm.  "Big pinch," and his eyes flicked with amusement to Mycroft's jaw-clenched face that was now turned completely away from where John was working with an anticipatory grimace.  Deftly, he cannulated the vein, was rewarded with a brisk flashback of blood, and connected the tubing.  "Deep breath, good job.  Relax, we're in," he said quietly, noting that Mycroft was actually a bit pale, diaphoretic, and was slightly impressed by that - the fact that he was here at all as well as the commitment to seeing something through.  And then he remembered that Mycroft was nothing if not thorough.

He applied a few pieces of tape for stability, then added in less of an intimate whisper, "Thanks for bringing a nice vein with you," and was rewarded by a purse of the lips.  He filled all three tubes then connected the collection bag, hanging it just beneath the edge of the chair on the agitator scale.  He lowered the pressure in the arm cuff a bit, touched Mycroft's right hand, saying, "Give that a roll from time to time, couple times a minute, it'll keep blood flowing, fill the bag faster."

Mycroft had relaxed the grimace and was now staring at John, not completely comfortable but with less pallor.  John glanced over his shoulder at his other two chairs, one of which had nearly filled the donation bag and the other was patiently waiting for him.  "Let me know if you start to feel poorly - dizzy or queasy - but you're doing well so far."

John watched him roll the stick in his hand and nod, then forcibly exhale and attempt to relax his shoulders.  John stepped away to disconnect the patient who was nearly finished, apply gauze, and then begin the entire process with the third chair.

When it came time to disconnect Mycroft, John's instructions were the same as they'd been for everyone else, "Keep this pressure roll on for thirty minutes, then the bandaid for six hours."  He'd pressed tightly as the needle was removed, then retracted the needle, finished the unit up neatly as a volunteer arrived to finish the packing of the unit, carry it to the table to prepare it for transport along with all the others.  Mycroft carefully kept his eyes off of it, and John continued, "Sit up then, slow," and as he did, John could feel the tremor, so he pushed against his arm, "Nope, not yet, then, mate.  Lay back for a few.  It affects some people that way at first."  He caught Mycroft's free hand, placed his fingers against the bandage, "Press here while you lay back."

Had he more time, or more inclination, he would have made a snide commentary about the propensity of the Holmes family to swoon, or perhaps something about what Mummy Holmes would say if she could see him now.  He kept silent, but thought perhaps sharing it later with Sherlock would be humorous.

The process was unremarkable for his other two chairs, cannulate, fill, eventually sit, discharge.  Typically a volunteer escorted the donor from the chair to the refreshment area, and once Mycroft was sitting comfortably without swaying, John looked for a volunteer, found none.  "Okay, I'll walk you over," which he'd done a few times when volunteer unavailability had demanded it, and he took Mycroft's elbow, carrying his suit jacket for him as they crossed the room, delivering him to the next step.  "Extra juice for this one," John said, his hands overtop Mycroft's shoulders in a friendly gesture.  They were approached by a sweet smiling woman, and he quipped to her, "hold the vodka."  To Mycroft he said, "You're to stay here at least fifteen minutes so we can keep a bit of an eye on you.  Two drinks and eat something before you leave.  Extra fluids today, if you feel symptomatic, take it easy."  Mycroft eased into a chair, holding out an arm for the glass that was handed him.  "Thanks for donating."  They met eyes then, and the smiles were genuine, each man for their own reasons.  "And I mean that, you know."

Mycroft nodded, looking much smaller and humbled, even, as he said quietly, for John's hearing alone, "You told me once I had blood on my hands."  He paused, swallowed, choosing his words with consideration.  "I thought, perhaps..."

John's smile was quick and easy, and Mycroft got a brief glimpse of why Sherlock was so intrigued and taken by the kind and direct man at his side. "It was a nice thing to do."

"For gods sake," he intoned with a dramatic urgency, "don't tell anyone _that_."  He made a fake attempt to look threatening that brought John's grin back again.

As John turned to walk back to his station that was now full again, he glanced over at the doorway to find Sherlock leaning against the wall, watching.  His jacket hung open, and John got the impression he'd been there quite a while.  John got back to work, the pace and flow of the day steady with a good turnout of donors and volunteers, and just a few minutes later when he looked over, Sherlock had joined his brother at the table.  His next patient experienced a brief period of syncope, and by the time John had refused the donation for that one and had a minute to scan the room, they were both gone.

At home later, Sherlock asked John how the day went, a bit of a sparkle in his eye.  John's answer was a short, "It was a bloody good day."  Sherlock had come over to meet John at the doorway, took his coat from him.

"Any surprises?"

"Just the one."  John asked the question that he'd been contemplating since first seeing Mycroft at the donation center.  "Did you call him, tell him about the drive?"

"He called me, actually."  When John seemed unsure about that answer, Sherlock continued.  "It is not a far stretch, you know, given all his past orchestrations, that he would in all likelihood keep tabs on both of us."  When John quirked that half-smile, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said with mock disgust, "Yes, that means he does indeed _read your blog_."

"Apparently.  I was surprised to find him there, however, but fortunately didn't over-react.  Room full of people, and such."

"Intentional, I'm sure.  It looked like that went all right, at any rate."  Sherlock seemed amused.  "I envy you getting to stick him with a big needle."

"He didn't enjoy that part very much, I will say."  As they both stood in close proximity, there was a current in the air, an awareness, an intention of good times ahead.

"He's never been a big fan of needles, used to scream bloody murder when he needed his jabs."  

"Making people scream isn't usually a good time for anyone."  When Sherlock made an excited and rather risque grin, John amended, "in healthcare."  He himself wasn't a big fan of the paediatric population much of the time, for that reason, although he had done well in his med school paeds rotation.  "But your brother, he didn't make a sound today."  John recalled how he'd turned away and wouldn't watch.

"How about you, did you make any _sounds_  yet today?"  Sherlock's fingers found his collar, undid the top few buttons.  "I think I might like to coax some out of you, if you're interested."

John moaned a bit and arched his back as Sherlock quickly undid his remaining buttons and slid down to his belt.  "Interested?  Definitely.  I was kind of hoping for dinner first," John lied with no attempt to disguise that, "but I can certainly be persuaded."

++

They had finally informed family and friends about their upcoming trip, although the exact plans were still something of an unknown, as they had deliberately left a few nights here and there for only them if they desired.  Lestrade was the only one who had rolled his eyes, expressing out loud that there would probably be an unsolvable locked room murder while they were gone.  Sherlock actually had the presence of mind to inform Greg that he would simply solve it when he returned and not to worry.  Sherlock's parents didn't pick up the phone nor respond to the voicemail.  John had asked Mrs. Hudson simply to hold their mail while they were gone, and he promised to bring her something back with them.

Even as it had been mostly John's idea, he viewed the trip with a degree of nervous curiosity.

It was wholly understandable.  Destination:  Afghanistan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have probably taken some liberties with the UK blood donation program (with great apologies for what I missed despite the research on the NHS Blood and Transplant website), but it is very different and seems a bit more restrictive than the US version (The Red Cross). I had some fun with that scene, but wanted to at least mention that neither John nor Sherlock would have been able to donate blood in the UK (or in the US for that matter), that part is true.
> 
> If this kind of resolution appeals to you, and if you have not already watched it, I recommend Broadchurch to you, starring David Tennant and some other wonderful actors/actresses and will say nothing additional because ... spoilers.
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any typos or things that slipped by me. Thanks for hanging in and being patient waiting for this (yes, another chapter split in half)
> 
> Final chapter: The trip to John's former base, the return to London, and another surprise visit courtesy of Mr. Holmes. And a smutty epilogue (which of course is already written). And of course, when I say final chapter, one of these times I'm actually going to mean it.


	8. Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final pieces fall into place - both in Afghanistan and in London.
> 
> The ending may cross just slightly out of M territory. And there might be just a wisp of very light and extremely consensual D/s theme.

They were headed back to his military unit's base in Afghanistan.  He had contacted his CO, the London Military office for help with travel arrangements and permissions, and despite having initiated this all on his own, it wasn't until Mycroft got involved that final approvals were issued.  Mycroft himself had actually called John directly, told him that a travel itinerary had come across his desk and that official word was they would travel as visiting VIPs, a veteran and a guest.

"I really didn't want that, wasn't asking for it."  John realised his petulance, softened, "But thank you anyway."

Mycroft snickered.  "You haven't traveled with Sherlock much, and certainly not like this.  Trust me, you're going to be grateful for any little extra benefit you can get."  John couldn't help but laugh at his words, and then was somewhat taken aback that he was able to joke with the man with such ease.  "I know, John, you are well-aware of his high maintenance, and let me warn you it comes out _in spades_ under difficult travel conditions."

"Not necessary, but, well... I guess appreciated."

"Have a good trip.  And do let me know if you run into any difficulties along the way."

John didn't think that most of the difficulties warranted getting Mycroft Holmes involved, but he was getting ready to as Sherlock resisted and balked at gathering necessities to pack.  He finally gave in when John insisted on sturdy walking shoes, and thought that perhaps, John having actually lived in Afghanistan, that he _just might_ know what he was talking about.  He complained about John's suggestion that he pack a sensible hat (and _not that deerstalker, Sherlock, come on, be reasonable!_ ).

The biggest battle (after the ridiculously large sized suitcase Sherlock wanted to take, _vetoed!_ ) ended up being over clothing.  Sherlock had fussed about what he wanted to wear as they prepared to visit John's former unit, which, as John kept telling him, was in the hot, sandy, windy, dirty desert.  "No, you absolutely shouldn't wear your tailored trousers, and don't bother with denims.  It's too bloody hot there this time of year, and we're not even going when temperatures are the highest, but neither of us are acclimated to it."  He'd started working on other things they were packing - or not packing, as well, and much of it seemed open to Sherlock's interpretation, such as:  "The Belstaff stays home, Sherlock."  "The computer can go but you can't use it outdoors at all in the wind because of the sand."  "You will need to at least bring pyjamas, yes, and no, I don't know what our sleeping arrangements are going to be."  "Yes, if we can, we can share a tent, but I'm not promising it."  "No, I'm not able to take my gun through airport security."

John had eventually taken him (when in actuality it required threats against his person) shopping, held out a pair of cargo shorts, nice Paul Smith ones that John would never ever have paid for, and Sherlock could only stare at them in horror.

"No."  He at least had lowered his voice and was trying not to create a scene.  "Absolutely not."

John had had about enough of the childishness and retaliated with some of his own.  "Then I'm not taking you with me.  Or I'll abandon you in the desert, in your thermal clothing, probably suffering heatstroke, with spitting camels and stinging scorpions."  After speaking, John realised that was likely incentive, played a card that he knew Sherlock would find somewhat threatening.  "And wild dogs."  The domestic ones, he liked quite a bit, but the errant stray who came charging at him with fangs bared he didn't care for at all.

There was enough colour on Sherlock's neck, then, for John to realise there was a deeper issue, something larger at stake.  John angled his head, considering the defiance and the unnecessary stubbornness.

"What is the real reason here, why have you chosen this hill to die on?"  John stood there near the dressing room (that Sherlock had resisted all efforts to get him inside of), watching him carefully.  "It's _clothing_ , for God's sake, who gives a flying fuck?"

"Trousers, John.  Something, anything long."  He evaded the question, picking at a casual pair of trousers on the next rack.  "I'll sweat, I don't care."

The fitting room was deserted, but John wouldn't have cared if it were full.  He stood at Sherlock's elbow, a wave of compassion emanating from him and he tossed the clothing aside to lift Sherlock's chin to look him in the eye.  "Are you embarrassed about showing your legs?"

There was an honest-to-goodness pout.  "It sounds terrible when you say it."  Grumbling, Sherlock's neck and high cheekbones suffused with a bit of colour.

"Is that all this is about, your knees?  For pity's sake, of course they're bony - like the rest of you.  Trust me, I've met the receiving end of your bony elbows, too.  Sherlock, enough of this, go try these on, you'll need several, and be done with this afternoon, all right?"  The briefest of nods.  "Hate to break it to you, but no one is going to be looking at your legs, except me.  And I find them wonderful.  Seriously."  He let his chin down so Sherlock could hide his eyes.  "Trust me, you'll be glad you agreed."

++

"Watson?!"

The hot air and the hot sand and the hot wind blew over them as they exited the hot jeep.  Sherlock's pale skin was moist, his hair even sweaty, and he'd pulled his expensive cargo shorts up to mid thigh for better air circulation.  John had been merciful and not mentioned his earlier fussing about apparel.  Waves of heat distorted the whole area in the blazing sun, and they turned to see who had called John's name.  John grinned as he recognised the man.

Their military liaison had radioed ahead, and the CO had come to greet them both.  They embraced quickly, and John made the introductions as they were ushered into one of the offices to escape the sun, wind, and heat.  The CO offered them both water bottles, a luxury reserved for visitors, and John was grateful, as the last thing either of them wanted was travelers diarrhoea from drinking local water.

"Noah still here?"  John recalled vividly working with one of the more skilled triage and surgical nurses, and was definitely hoping to see him again, introduce Sherlock to those he'd been so close to for so long while serving.

"No, rotated home, his tour was up."  John asked after a few more he remembered, and some were here, some were not.  It had been close to 9 months since he'd stood last on this very piece of Afghani sand.  He was remembered by others who came to say hello.  "What about Sid?  Communications, tall gangly, red hair, freckles?"

A couple of the people standing there exchanged a look, and they knew, John and Sherlock both, that something was wrong.  By tacit agreement, the subject was changed and the group went to grab a meal in the mess tent.  At their table, in a modicum of privacy, the CO mentioned Sid again, and John grew quiet.  "Sid had some trouble.  Got sent down.  Lost his shit after..."  

John cocked his head, puzzled.  "After..."

"After your mission went sour."  The CO went on to explain how much they'd tried to help him, offered services and such here at the base, but he'd developed a compulsion to check radios, even as people were using them, or leaving.  "He took it real hard that your radio wasn't working, Watson.  Felt rather responsible."  Sherlock watched John watch the CO, alert for signs of distress or trouble, but John seemed genuinely concerned and not distraught.  "Someone heard he was back in Wales, where his family lived."

"How's he doing now?" 

The look was telling, the shrug and the face and the discouragement.  Obviously not well.  "Haven't had an update lately, but last we had heard, still inpatient somewhere."

John looked at Sherlock, their eyes again communicating much without needing to say a word.  "I'd like very much if you can find out where he is.  I want to pay him a visit."

"I'll see what we can do."  He made a few notes on a tablet, tucked it into his pocket.  "I hear you'll be staying a few days with us, and that you'd like a tour of the area."

The lump in John's throat grew, and he breathed deep and smiled.  Swallowing another mouthful of water to ease the tension.  "Yes, I was hoping someone could take us back out to where the last mission was, too."

"We took that area, so it's completely safe now.  We can arrange that for sure, Watson, and there'll be no enemy firing at you this time."  The comment was delivered with what was supposed to be light-hearted reassurance.  John worked very hard at not glancing at Sherlock at that statement.  Very, very hard.

++

They were assigned to the VIP tent, a smaller, domed canvas structure, with no amenities (the box fan, in either of their opinions, didn't count for much) and very narrow cots.  John stripped to his pants, flopped onto the cot on his back while Sherlock struggled with his mobile, trying to get a signal.

"Don't they have wifi here?" he groused although only fussing minimally. 

John lay silently, his ankles crossed.  When the silence grew long, he looked over as Sherlock was trying to locate the best reception.  "You know, poor wifi is not actually a hardship in many places."

They met eyes again, and Sherlock's twinkled, "Yes, actually it is."

It was the first time since their arrival that they were alone, and Sherlock did actually then put his mobile down, plugged in the charger, and took in their surroundings.  "This would be more efficiently wind proof if they'd angled it with the corner facing the wind.  Southeast rather than direct south."

"The wind changes all the time here.  Weather is very unpredictable."  John waited until Sherlock had toed off his shoes and slid his clothing off before switching off the light.  "From what I remember anyway."  The darkness was not complete, but the simple act made the room feel cooler.

"Is it what you expected, being back?"

"Mostly just sad if anything, I suppose.  Lot of personnel change, obviously.  I never got..." he found emotion where he wasn't expecting to have any, breathed deep, "... never got the chance to say goodbye, or pack up, or thank people for their friendship."  He stretched there on the cot, recalling how many nights (and days, when on shift work) he'd spent on their narrow-ness, and flung his right arm over his head.  "They were good people."

"Tomorrow might be hard, I would imagine."

They were going to be taken back to the area where the mission had occurred, where John had been injured.  It felt rather clandestine, that the real story was only known by John and Sherlock.  John nodded, then remembered it was dark, spoke his affirmation, turned on his side in restlessness.  "I wondered if perhaps seeing it, any of this, would all of a sudden restore memory.  Even being here, just in the base, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to."

John had closed his eyes, but opened them quickly when he heard loud sounds of something heavy being dragged across the floor.  The dim glow of the few camp lights illuminated enough of the room for John to see that Sherlock had lugged his cot over so that the edges nearly touched his.  John could hear the smile in the words, "Mind the gap," and he couldn't stop the giggle in response.  A hand reached across to brush against his waist, a tactile reminder of the companionship even in the uncertain moments ahead.  He slid fingers down to entwine with Sherlock's, drifted off there in the heat with a smile on his face and a sense of security next to him in the tent.

++

They stood in the CO's office awaiting their escort out into the countryside.  Sherlock was studying the plaques and certificates on the wall, while John and the CO were discussing some of the latest breakthroughs in surgical management of trauma victims, both of them lamenting that the advances in trauma medicine were primarily due to a wealth of experience, many failures before a success.   John couldn't help but realise that if they had actual trauma victims, or even photos, that Sherlock's attention would be on them instead of the wall.

"Hey, John, is this photo of you?"  He'd come full around to a few of the collages on a bulletin board, faded, crinkled, curled photos attached.  

Looking apologetically at the CO for the interruption - _because, God, Sherlock would never have survived in the military with all the required protocols and decorum that he would most certainly call ridiculous_ \- John stood up to look, coming to lean in beside him.  "Oi, yeah, that was at one of the R &R weekend conferences."  He smiled, remembering.  "Whatever happened to ..."

"Sholto?" the CO predicted, also rising to see which picture they had singled out. "Finished his tour, took a chief-of-staff position at Landstuhl."  He peered out the clear plastic window.  "Think this might be your ride."  He turned back to John, "You guys were thick as thieves, as I recall.  Best surgical team ever, when you worked together."  John could feel Sherlock's eyes as solidly as he could feel his own clothing and skin.

The horn sounded out front, typical, John knew, not rude in the military, simply efficient.  He briefly looked down for the pack that he would have carried, of course finding it absent, and smiled deprecatingly at his own long-ago habit.  The jeep was an open top, with sides, and it was a quick trip to where records had last placed John and the rest of the team.  Their guide stopped, parked, got out.

"This way, gentlemen," and he was following notes on his paper, GPS coordinates apparently garnered from the paperwork from the mission.  Leading the way into the brush, he paused, "The team notes were that you all split up here to cover more area, looking for a wounded man.  Captain Watson as ranking officer, probably you would have taken center."  It was a matter of fact statement, and John looked around, mostly appreciating that he wasn't given time to be upset or overthink anything.

The walk was long, ten minutes or so in silence punctuated only by the guide alerting them to trail obstacles and one sleeping snake in one of the trees.  When Sherlock looked at it with something akin to glee, John caught his eye, shook his head slightly, and followed their escort.

John recognised nothing, no landmarks, no surge of memory, and as they neared the far edge of the brush, the leader on point stopped, consulting his device again.  "Records showed that, I mean within a certain degree of speculation, you were found somewhere here, carried out this direction," he gestured a long arm up ahead, off in the distance where the vegetation obviously cleared, "taken for aid by truck."

The three of them stopped, an odd triangle as all three of them glanced around at the rather non-descript almost bland area.  John was disappointed, not that he expected angel music or trumpets or a sudden epiphany, but he thought, for such a history he had, that there should have been something.

Sherlock stood, hands on his hips, taking in all of John's attitude and body language, and spoke to their guide.  "May we have a few minutes here, please?  Just the two of us."

"I'm under orders," the man spoke to John rather than Sherlock then, "sir, you understand..."

Sherlock was not deterred. "I will exchange you five minutes" and here, under his breath, John could have been heard to utter an _uh-oh_ , "for my silence.  I will withhold enlightening your unit as to your techniques you've engaged to cheat at the weekly poker games."  John almost felt badly for the guy at the shocked look on his face.

His mouth snapped shut, he glanced from John to Sherlock with an alarming degree of concern.  "I'll be not even 500 meters or so, the road is not far then a short hike back to the jeep."

John found the smile that was brewing.  "Fine.  Thank you."  He hesitated, so John continued, trying to reassure him.  "We'll be along."

Once they were unattended, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John.  "You okay?" he asked as John nodded, with a small shrug.  "It was somewhere around here, so many things changed for you."

John was quiet, taking it all in, but his eyes kept coming back to Sherlock.  "Some of it worked out pretty good," he said, offering his final thoughts aloud.

"I want to try something, if you're amenable."

"Sherlock, we are not... no, he's right over there.   _No._ "

"Not _that_ , you lech."  They shared a quiet laugh, and Sherlock took in the area again, and John could tell he was in deduction mode as he surveyed the foliage and landmarks.  "Chances are you approached this way, encountered someone or someone simply ..." he let the phrase trail off, unwilling to say it out loud quite that directly, instead amended to "who had a good visual on you from somewhere close by," he gestured at the clumps of trees.  

John couldn't stop the shudder as he could see what Sherlock was getting at, the layout of the area and what could have happened.

"The leaf cover doesn't change much, right?"  John nodded in agreement again.  "So you were perhaps somewhere over here."  He walked to the clear area, sat down, and waved John over.  John's cautious approach gave Sherlock pause, and he hoped that he wasn't pushing too hard.  "Lay on your back here, head here," he said, patting his thigh.

John complied, and just as he was about to end up as Sherlock had directed, Sherlock asked another question.  "Do you recall the shooter, probably in black?"  John froze, mid movement, his breathing suddenly tight.  "Nevermind," he said quickly.  "It's ok.  Irrelevant."

He leaned slowly, his back uncurling on the gravelly ground, until his head rested on Sherlock's leg, eyes wide, staring up entirely at Sherlock's face.  "I would have been looking up, probably."  John's voice was tight.  "Maybe at this very spot."

Sherlock nodded, "Maybe. Until your vision was impeded."  They were fairly certain something had been thrown over his face, and Sherlock tried to imagine what that must have been like to be shot first, then blinded by a perceived enemy - beyond terrifying.  He wanted to run his fingers into John's blond hair in the worst way, to comfort, to touch, to reassure, but didn't.  He let his eyes be the anchor John was seeking.  "You're fine."  He glanced up, tilting his own head out of John's gaze to look up at the tree cover, bright sky overtop of that.  "Interesting vegetation.  Different."

"I don't remember.  But it - _this_ \- just laying like this feels scary.  Hard to explain.  Something like muscle memory, my mind is quite aware..."  John chuckled at himself nervously, then sobered again, having just barely glanced at the trees and returned to keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock.  "Funny, you'd think I'd remember."

"I'm here."  There was gentleness and a warm breeze even in the shade.  Despite the clock ticking down the limited amount of time they had, Sherlock was unrushed, and spoke softly.

John spoke, "I'm glad."  His gaze was riveted on Sherlock, and a couple of things happened in that moment, as John took control of his breathing, adding the biofeedback techniques he'd learned even before Ella, and his shoulders relaxed.  Some of the tension visible on his face even eased, and Sherlock took that as a cue.  His hands came to John's scalp then, just lightly brushing at the strands of his hair.  It was too hot to do much more, but the familiarity of the gesture led to the beginnings of two smiles.  "I certainly wouldn't have wanted to come here without you."

"Trust me," Sherlock said and without waiting for a response or acknowledgement, and leaned back just enough on his elbow so that John had no choice but to look skyward.  "Nothing's going to happen this time."

John stared up, the underside of the leaves rustling, the sky bright, the smell of sand and fauna unique and pungent.  Eyes wide, he could hear, sense, smell, and see fear.  Sherlock let his hand slide to John's face, from his temple to his cheek, turned his head to make eye contact.  "You're fine, breathe."  He'd considered that this might evoke some unpleasant associations when he'd considered this place, wondering how and why John might react to various stimuli.  "The last time here, you said you had no choice, no control."

John hissed a breath in and out, gnawed on his lower lip, offered a wavering smile at Sherlock.  "I'm ok."  He could feel his heart pounding, hyperdynamic, in his chest, pounding away under his ribs, pulsating sounds traversing his neck and into his ears.  Even his fingertips throbbed and resonated with blood flow.

"Indeed you are."  Sherlock glanced up again, then looked around knowing by feel that John was doing the same.  "It's actually nice here.  Of course, seeing the snake sold me.  I would guess there's scorpions, big spiders?"

"If I was mean, I would comment on the one crawling up your arm."  Even knowing John was teasing, Sherlock still very quickly flicked his eyes to ensure that his arm carried no livestock.  "It is pretty here.  There are some other great views up in the mountains, but I don't think they're part of our tour."  His expression sobered.  "Lot of suffering, too.  The oppression of the people, it's a hard life."

"But here's where it all started.  We started, I meant." He hesitated, then added, "At least officially."

"And it's been quite a journey so far."  John shifted on the ground, dug his head into Sherlock's thigh.  "I think I remember looking up at the trees.  I think if you threw something over my eyes here, I'd absolutely panic.  The fear was, _is_ , very real, really strong when I first lay down, just a bit ago.  Better now."  He breathed deep, feeling his shoulders ease at the remaining nagging ache in his left one.  "And it's okay."  They were still then, a few moments, and John reached up a hand to touch Sherlock's that was just barely against his head.

Eventually, after things had very much settled, Sherlock spoke. "We should probably think about leaving," he said with reluctance.  They stood, John first out of necessity, working the stiffness out of his body.  Soon they were toe to toe, eyes and hands touching.  John pulled Sherlock up against him until they were hugging, arms wrapped, knees touching, boots staggered in order to be as close as possible.  John's mouth was level with Sherlock's collarbone, and he tilted his head toward Sherlock's sternum, breathing deeply of the comfortable and familiar scent.

"In a sec."  John let his body relax against Sherlock's, pulling just a bit tighter, before releasing his grip.  His exhale was a bit shaky, and Sherlock left his arms where they were around John's back.  He waited until John was truly calm again, more composed, more himself.  There was at least a full minute of cleansing breaths, of gathering strength from each other, and the smile John gave Sherlock was more settled, relieved, confident.  

Sherlock pulled out his phone.  John could only shake his head at him.  "I'm pretty sure there's no service here."

Sherlock shot him a look, then he flipped the camera front facing, gathered John closer again, and snapped off several photos of them.  "We're going to print this one.  Good things here, this area, and you survived both times."  He grinned, pulling John against him, inhaling the mild scent of sweat and fear and being human.  He let his fingers brush over the mostly-healed although still sensitive scarring at his shoulder.  "Something good to remember, this time."  The strands of hair in his fingers, many shades of light brown, blond, a few silver just beginning, were fascinating in the dappled light there under the trees.  "We should go back, pretty sure this guy would rather not have his gambling problems blabbed all over the unit."  He stopped.  "But give me a few more minutes with him, and I could probably find other things to use to our advantage.  Buy us more time in case you're..."  He waggled his eyes, smiling down and pressing his lower abdomen against him.

John shook his head, drawing away although chuckling.  "No.  This is not a place where you want to tick people off."  He waited until Sherlock looked back at him with a questioning glance at the deliberateness of his words.  "Heaven knows, even _not_ making waves can get you shot here."  Laughing at crime scenes was not unheard of between them, earning them the occasional dirty look from Lestrade and others.  Here, the laughter never quite came out, but the crinkle at John's eyes and smirk certainly made the statement just this side of humorous.  Smiling, Sherlock lowered his mouth, going for a kiss, and John thought perhaps they would claim exhaustion and disappear for a few hours once back within the confines of the camp.  He said as much, and, smiling his agreement, Sherlock gestured for him to lead the way.

They strolled through the brush, John leading, and came upon their guide nervously watching the sky and the brush and his watch.  "You were starting to make me nervous."   He pointed to the road and off into the distance.  "Storm brewing, we need to get headed back now."

John looked in the direction he was pointing, and seeing Sherlock's skepticism, he told him, "Sandstorm, see that cloud?"  He glanced at Sherlock's expression, recognised the interest and intrigue immediately.  "Sorry, but no, inside quarters is the only safe place to be during that."  Briefly, he explained about how during a strong sandstorm that it can be dark, windy, and too dense and dangerous to see through, and that even through protective gear it can still be uncomfortable.  "And behind all that sand, sometimes there's ridiculously heavy rain, too."  He followed their guide who was leading the way back to the vehicle.  "It's bad enough in a tent, but some of the villages have inadequate shelter, and it's deadly for them."

++

When they returned to the unit by one very relieved driver, they sought out the CO's office, where the storm blew through quickly and without incident, although both reminisced about the early days before the canvas had been thick enough where buildings and shelters were damaged.  No rain had followed, and they were escorted to the dining tent.  John found something to eat while Sherlock picked at John's lunch, taking it in and making all sorts of astute under-his-breath observations.  Some familiar faces stopped by the table, some of the nurses seemed mildly, and pleasantly, surprised when John introduced his companion, looking back and forth as if trying to determine what type of companion.  Sherlock found that endlessly amusing, and threatened at one point when they were alone at the table, that he was going to haul off and kiss him just to dispel any confusion.

The cook, at the completion of the lunch hours, posted a sign indicating that tonight's dinner was going to be Six Chow, and a few tables who noticed applauded, a few wolf whistles.  A similar sign was hung on their way in the tent, but didn't question anything about it of course.  One of the officers recognised John, gestured to the sign, and said it was his lucky day to be visiting on Six Chow night.

"Why?"  John was curious, recalling that usually the food was decent but predictable, and they did rarely get a special dessert.

"Oh, gosh, this started months before Christmas, there was this delivery, all this specially ordered stuff - awesome meat, cheese, tea, biscuits, desserts like you wouldn't believe.  Plum pudding always.  Gets trucked in from headquarters, all labeled specifically for this unit only."  He gestured for them to grab their trays, follow him, and he continued his explanation.  "When they tried to track it down, who it came from, who it was really meant for, all they could find on the label was that the order came down from a high ranking office, no further details available.  Frankly, don't care."  He grinned then, hand on the tent exit. "But don't miss it.  And don't be late."

Mycroft had said once, 

_"It is all my jurisdiction if I choose it to be."_

And John remembered that night with great clarity, before any of this had come to light, when Mycroft had brought him the Military Cross medal.  He cut a quick glance to Sherlock who was already looking back at John with steady, and all-knowing, eyes.

He went on to tell them that most of the labels had been removed, save that one, all very secretive.  "We thought it meant we were doomed for, exposed to something and it was our last meal.  Every month or so, another entire gourmet meal shows up, all completely unlabeled, no return address, nothing. Anyway," he continued, "So the name, Highest level military intelligence, MI-6, has been abbreviated to Six Chow."  They passed the sign on the way out, empty-handed now, and there were a few people who had noticed it again, and John could tell that this was indeed a big event, a nice happening for them.  "So don't tell anyone.  We just take the gift for as long as we keep getting it.  It's like someone's telling us thank you for something.  And as I see it?  It's quite deserved."

In between the tour of the rest of the camp, including some of the communication rooms, and most of the medical suites, they had only a few minutes to themselves, and none of it unwitnessed.

"So, Six Chow?"  Sherlock looked over, and John continued, "You think it's got something to do with ...?"

"Plum pudding."

"What does that...?"

"His signature dessert.  Of course it was him."

"It was nice."  John considered the reactions of the men to the event, the anticipation, knew his would have been the same were he still here - a break in the routine, something to look forward to, an unscheduled surprise

"He's an idiot to have allowed the one label to have remained on the packaging."

"Then he's a nice idiot."

"I'm telling him you said so."

"Fine by me."

"I'm also telling him they refer to his provision as 'chow.'  That'll drive him right round the bend."

++

Their remaining time in the unit was mostly social, more low key, punctuated by a dearth of combat-related injuries, thank goodness, and only several evaluations of soldiers complaining of fever with other vague symptoms or a few minor injuries, all quite usual given the size of the unit.  John and Sherlock had toured the base, seen the workings behind some of the supplies, materials, and transportation challenges.  The medical staff handling, however, was one group the CO said had undergone some rather revolutionary changes after John had left.  

With just the three of them in the office, he mentioned that a few months after John's injury there had been some sort of independent investigation, a spontaneous and unannounced visit.  Someone had shown up with a long list of credentials and all kinds of governmental permission letters, and had gone through the files from during the few months after John had shipped out, while the surgeon who replaced John was in training, learning the ropes of trauma medicine, of the unit protocols.  "I'm pretty sure it was only a few weeks after that, there was a new policy adopted that the higher-ups were going to send extra staff in order to smoothly facilitate the orientation period."  Without a second thought, he said that they had reviewed effects on soldiers, complication rates, and other stats from that time.  He explained that by the time, for example, that James Sholto rotated to his new assignment, that the replacement arrived with a buddy, a set of extra hands, and he was amazed at the difference.

"I know you had nothing to do with it, John, but the fact that we were able to show the detriment of the current process was what, at least I'm pretty sure, made this new process accepted."  These changes, this additional medical training for new and relocated surgeons, this program for extra staff as they acclimated to the new role, was dedicated solely to training, mentoring, precepting, and assuring facilitation of new skills.

Sherlock was watching John with careful scrutiny, not wishing him to be overcome or unable to respond to that and the credit that was being indirectly given and attributed to what had happened.  John was looking out the window, watching a helicopter land, and blinked a few times, swallowed hard, and answered, "Then I guess it was almost worth it, wasn't it?"

The CO did not pick up on the undertones John was exuding.  "Well, not for you certainly, but overall?  Of course."

John and Sherlock exchanged worried looks, Sherlock out of concern for John and John out of simply being reduced to a pawn.  Sherlock was ready, and added his own take on the situation.  "There's always a cost for progress.  But sometimes, on a personal level, it is rather high."  Sherlock was borderline confrontational, in defence of John's situation, and they all exchanged glances.

The CO must have then realised he'd come across unfeeling.  "Oh, Watson, you know what I meant.  Ultimate sacrifice for you, we all felt it hard when you got invalided home.  There wasn't a person here who wasn't shocked by what had happened, you know, that was a godawful terrible day.  I was glad when they informed us of your Military Cross award.  You saw your name up there, right?"  He pointed a thumb at the plaque.

John glanced over to the wall, nodding in the affirmative.  "Very impressive list," Sherlock observed.

"Too long, if you ask me," John said.

"The other list that's too long," the CO said quietly, agreeing, "is the list of the casualties."

Later that afternoon, back in their tent, Sherlock hedged only briefly before bringing up the topic, and did so with only one word.  He waited until John was looking, and cocked an eyebrow, saying with a hint of attitude, "So,  _Sholto?_ "

John let his eye contact hold.  "What of him?"

"You ever...?"  The word drew out, questioning, and he glanced down John's frame, eyebrow raised, clearly indicating what they'd been up to, physically.

"No."  John's answer was clipped, short, and borderline non-engaging.

"No?"  Sherlock attempted to tower over John, arms crossed in front of him, conveying just a tad of emphasised, faux hostility.  "No, or not yet?"

John had no trouble maintaining eye contact, had felt the military discipline over the past few days of their visit, could easily slip back into the authoritarian role, and felt it arising even as he felt Sherlock's body language and tone almost definitely asking for it, to be given a mandate, ordered about.  "I'm not sure I care for your _lip_."  The pupils in Sherlock's eyes blazed a bit, blue-gray darkening to steel as they widened in desire.  John could feel his chest swell, posture straighten, an eyebrow arch.  "No and not yet are still a no, wouldn't you agree?"

"Something to hide, there, _Captain_?"  He got sassy and stroppy in both word and carriage.  "I think intent is sometimes more revealing than action some of the time. Interested with intent to deliver?"  His mouth opened to continue except that John snaked out an arm, pressing both index finger and thumb of his hand into Sherlock's trapezius, digging in just firmly to both get his gasping attention and to make some of his own intentions perfectly clear.  The soft moan that came from Sherlock's mouth betrayed his own desire to be handled even as his words were halted.  In the quietest whisper possible, John heard a breathy, ' _God, yes!'_

Snippets of daylight came through the seams of the tent and from under the edges, although the windows were covered to help insulate and keep out the heat.  John's grip tightened as he pushed, and Sherlock bent his legs.  John's soft voice, low, brought a tremor to Sherlock's upper body, "On your knees, _soldier_ ," his words were slow, encouraging, his tone low and sexy, "that's it."  Sherlock's own shorts were rather full in front, John could see, as he knelt.  Knowing John's tastes and preferences, he reached out long fingers toward John's zipper, until, surprisingly, John halted him.  "No.  No hands."  John unbuckled his own belt, beginning to lower the zip, and directed softly, "Keep them behind you," and it was very arousing to see Sherlock's fingers link together behind his back.  It thrust his chest out, arching his back and the tension in the room was expectant, electric.

Unzipping flies and lowering his clothing, exposing himself, as he sprung free, John watched Sherlock's eyes close and mouth open, his tongue licking his lips as if starving and awaiting a long-anticipated meal.  He let a hand steal into Sherlock's hair, the other coming along his jaw, and he began to move.  Sherlock held himself very still, allowing John to do most of the movement, until things were very close and he brought his hand up under John's now tightening body, his hand supporting and squeezing and pleasuring, until John came with a muffled cry.  He caught his breath, sliding to his own knees, wrapping a tight embrace around Sherlock, then John slid his hand forward and into the previously-hated shorts.  Sherlock rocked into John's hand a few times, then pulled back long enough to remove the shorts, muttering about how careless John was that they might actually soil the things, and what could he possibly have been thinking, anyway?

++

The morning of their departure, John tried to catch up with some of the staff at breakfast, over coffee (which they both agreed tasted awful on day one and now at day five, they were craving it and its effects).  There was no formal farewell of course, no official discharge ceremony, no group goodbye.  But Sherlock watched him with a growing concern as he grew quieter, introspective.  The CO had scheduled their transport off of the base, and while they waited in his office, conversation slowed and then stilled.  The CO stood, turned to Sherlock and asked him to leave them for a few minutes, garnering John's full and undivided attention at the request.  Sherlock complied although unhappily, waited for him through the closed swinging windowed door of his inner office.  Whatever they talked about, it was over in a handful of minutes, and through the plastic window, Sherlock could see the man eventually toe to toe with John, both of them standing fully upright, heels together, direct eye contact.  The CO saluted John, who remained motionless and calm.  Sherlock knew that John, as a civilian, would have been hugely honoured by that gesture, and the higher rank of the man opposite him was giving the gesture even more impact.  It was quick, and John returned the salute quickly, and moved on, wearing serious expressions.  Both appeared at the door then, and light goodbyes exchanged.  He thanked them for coming, told them they were welcome anytime, and they gathered bags and climbed into the waiting vehicle.

The road noise in the vehicle was rather loud, and John spoke a few sentences to the driver as they broke camp in part to assure their conversation wasn't going to be easily overheard.

"He remembered something about Sid, wanted to pass it on."  Sherlock waited, as he watched John swallow.  "Apparently, when it got bad, when he really lost it," and there was such a look of compassion on John's face it was difficult even for Sherlock to see it, "he kept on about 'tell John I'm sorry,' even as the ambulance drove off with him.  He'd stashed some of his pills, tried to overdose, nearly succeeded."  He looked away, repeated the phrase with sorrow.  "'Tell John I'm sorry.'"

"He couldn't have known everything."

"No, of course not, was following orders."

Sherlock's head tilted, considering.  "I guess there might have been a vague threat to ensure cooperation."

"And he must've pieced it together when he realised."  There was quiet that hung between them then, and John shrugged but was still pensive enough that Sherlock knew there was more.

Still watching John, Sherlock's eye narrowed, his mind working at least three different scenarios ahead of them.  "And?"

The corner of John's mouth quirked.

"Clearly there was more, John.  I can read you explicitly."

"The CO found a new discrepancy in the report, the incident report that was generated.  The one used by our guide to get us to the location.  It was different than the one originally filed, the CO had seen them both.  The times had been altered, a few things omitted in the copy."  John left out a lot of what the CO had said about the logistics and timing of when the alterations may have occurred, including when the independent investigation had been done regarding the injury, recovery, morbidity rates when John had first been shipped out.  "He offered - and strongly encouraged me - to open a formal investigation, file a grievance, find out what really happened."  Glancing over, he couldn't exactly tell what Sherlock was expecting, but was comforted by the gaze anyway.  "Can you imagine that?  Investigating this?"

"Are you going to?"  He attempted to speak quietly, to keep his opinion out of the mix.  "I don't recommend it."

"Of course not.  I already told him no."

Sherlock's eyes didn't waver, he took in all that was John's words and mannerisms.  "There was more."  John's face coloured.  "Something about us."

"Stop it," he teased back.  "Let me have something.  Just this once."

"When you say that later, you might want to say it like you mean it."

They had an overnight layover, chosen intentionally to break up the trip prior to their flight to London the following day.  It was spent in the private, hotel suite hot tub and ensuring that, while John may have spoken the words 'stop it', he absolutely did not mean it.

Sherlock brushed his lips against John's temple, their skin moist, heart rates still up, but sated and satisfied and _fulfilled_.  The trip had been successful on so many levels, and when John said this quietly out loud against Sherlock's bare chest, there was a murmured agreement, and then a hesitation.  "So, what words of wisdom did you get from your CO, right as we were leaving?"

"He said that it was about time I found someone worthy of me."

"He did not.  You're a terrible liar."

John could feel his face flush at Sherlock's immediate pounce upon the untruth, and they shared a quick smile.  "Just that we seemed good for each other."  John recalled his exact words, decided to share them, "He said he was glad that fate had brought us together, and that it was nice to have met you."

"And?"

John's jaw clenched at Sherlock's perceptiveness.  "That I finally seemed settled.  His exact words."

Sherlock didn't answer that verbally.  The arms that enveloped, holding, securing, that sense of belonging together, pressed skin-to-skin, made speech completely unnecessary.

++

Their first night back in London, after showering in familiar territory and enjoying comfortable indoor plumbing as well as reliable electricity, good wifi, and decent climate control, John commented to Sherlock that their bed had never looked so inviting and wonderful.  The cot had been acceptable but not in any stretch comfortable, and for John, it had associations of all the years he'd spent in one.  It was both literally and figuratively miles away from the queen sized bed he looked at there in their flat on Baker Street.  While John stood in the doorway with a wistful expression and a gravelly sound to his voice as he said this, Sherlock had other ideas.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock pulled off clothing, whisked down the duvet, arranging his naked body artfully on it.  He bent a knee, angled an elbow, reached a hand down for emphasis as John shook his head, laughing.  "Well, okay, maybe that is an even better improvement."  They both looked down at Sherlock's hand and what he was just very slowly stroking.  "That is a _bigger_ improvement, so it seems."  He came closer, touching his lips to Sherlock's skin, tasting waist, the prominent angle of his hipbones, and then shifting toward the pillow, lowering his mouth over Sherlock's, lips and tongue and teeth getting involved.  "Definitely an improvement," he muttered as Sherlock worked at removing his clothing.  Once he had John wearing exactly what he'd wanted (nothing, of course), he pushed at him until he was on his back, and John could only watch helpless and exquisitely aroused as Sherlock lowered his mouth, taking him in.

John groaned, spreading his thighs a bit more and digging in with his heels.  No words came coherently as Sherlock quickly sucked and moved and bobbed his head, letting his hand become a full participant as he could feel John harden and thicken and then finally _come_ , his release long and tense and hot.  Smiling then as John panted, working to catch his breath even as his hand sought out Sherlock's belly, lower.  Sherlock wiped his chin, with a moan deep in his throat as John's hand grasped and slid, and echoed the words, "Definitely an improvement."   

++

They were both standing there, uncertainly, in the doorway of Baker Street.  

"Are you sure you have everything?"  Sherlock asked as he looked with suspicion at John's case.

"Yes."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"Yes."

"John --"

"Oh, for god's sake.  Yes, I've eaten breakfast.  Yes, I bloody brushed my teeth.  Yes, I'm wearing clean pants."  He slung the small bag over his shoulder.  "I swear, you're a hundred times worse than my mum used to be."  

There was the sound of a somewhat frustrated exhale, and Sherlock, a touch annoyed, said, "I'll walk you to the train station."  Coats on, they left the flat.

"Fine."  It would be a several hour trip to Wales, a visit with Sid at Whitchurch Hospital, and then a return, and John was both looking forward to it and unsure if he would even be welcome.  The preliminary phone call confirmed that Sid was allowed visitors but it would be up to him to grant John access or not.  By policy, they did not obtain permission ahead of time, as it could be disappointing to the patient if something were not to work out.

"I don't know why you even packed a book, you never read on the train."  Sherlock continued to fuss, not even out of sight of their door to 221b.

"It's to keep people from annoying me with unwanted chatter and unnecessary questions."  He looked at Sherlock pointedly, hoping he would put the pieces together.

"I hope your mobile holds a charge, seeing as how you didn't pack a cable..."

John dug into the outside pocket of his bag, pulled the end of the charging cable and battery stick, then returned it, tucking his hand inside as well.

"Do you have ...?"  John used the first thing he could think of to shut up his dreadfully annoying flatmate.  Grabbing his Belstaff by the sleeve, he pulled them together quickly, drawing Sherlock's head down to press somewhat irritated lips together as Sherlock was mid-word.

"Stop it.  Okay?  We're fine, why are you so uptight?"  John checked the time, began walking again but closer to Sherlock, elbows touching.  "I'm fine, Sid will be fine, however this plays out.  And I'll be home tonight.  Find something to do today, maybe Greg has ..." and John's voice trailed off as it occurred to him the crux of the issue.  " _Oh._  You're worried I'll get upset and you won't be there to help."

Quietly, Sherlock tilted his head, his expression obviously confirming that John had indeed put words to his fear.  "A valid concern."

"I'm fine.  Truly.  The real worry is going to be that Sid won't talk to me.  It's smooth sailing from there.  Or a quick trip back home."  The station came into view, and John let his fingers squeeze gently into the bend of Sherlock's arm as they walked, a discreet touch, an assurance.  "Trust me."

A smile came across Sherlock's face, the kind and understanding one that John was fairly certain had only been seen by a few people, and he shrugged in surrender.  "I do."

He stood back outside the gate while John purchased the ticket, climbed through the doorway, pausing to look back, wave an arm in farewell, and note Sherlock's charming and expectant wink.  And then he was gone.

 ++

**Arrived safe, they are talking with Sid now**

**Sounds like he is agreeable**

**Good news. SH**

**I'm wishing I'd brought the MC award, maybe Sid needs it far more than I do.**

**Check your breast pocket inside your coat. SH**

**:-) How did you know to send this with me?**

**Because I'm not an idiot. SH**

**Thanks.**

**He will likely require some convincing to take it. Be ready. SH**

**Already planned. Heading in now.  Will text when I'm headed back to the station.**

**Good luck. SH**

**I'm thinking maybe your company would have been nice. Now I'm sorry I turned it down.**

**It's fine. You needed to do it on your own perhaps.  Besides, I've been comparing the burning rates of your jumpers.  Did you know they burn faster and smell better when filled with loose tea leaves before igniting them? SH**

_**Don't. Touch. My. Jumpers.** _

The response was a photo in which Sherlock had taken a selfie with John's favourite jumper, and he was holding a lighter up and wearing a sinister grin.

 **Especially not THAT ONE.  Sherlock, I swe--** One of the staff members came to the door, and John hit send mid-word, quickly, listened to a few instructions, then compose one last, hurried text. **goin in now gotta run**

Later that afternoon, John, with a light step, left the facility after visiting Sid.  It hadn't been perfect, but it had been good.  Sid's tears - sobs, actually - were deep and sorrowful, and John had quickly closed the door to give him privacy, to give them this catharsis, just the two of them.  While John hadn't felt it necessary to explain much of what went on, he hinted at enough that he was needed in London, and that the extreme measures, while difficult on so many levels, had only been taken as a last resort.  He'd been, in truth, the only one who could really offer Sid the absolution from his unknowing and unwitting part of the mission that day, and John made sure before leaving that Sid was clear on that.  After being released from the ward, he savoured the sensation of the clean, fresh air - made all the more poignant as Sid was truly in a locked facility.  He pulled out his mobile to send a text to Sherlock as he'd promised.

What he hadn't counted on was the recipient of the text he hadn't yet even composed to be sitting on a park bench just off the sidewalk, watching him and waiting to be noticed.

On mildly tentative long legs, Sherlock stood slowly to full height, the long coat unfolding around him as well.  On his face was a quiet, reserved smile.

"Hi."

"Finished burning my jumpers, did you, and decided to come join me?"

"My fantasies do not include incinerating your clothing."  He then made a face as if he were reconsidering, "Well, actually..."

John couldn't help briefly repeating Sherlock's words, "My fantasies..."  He smirked, shaking his head just a bit.  "So the cream coloured one is still intact?"

"It was as of yesterday when I took that photo."  John's brow furrowed as he heard the words.  " _Yesterday_ , John, do keep up.  I didn't actually burn any of them," Sherlock insisted.  "All nicely planned out ahead of time.  I took the same train in as you did."  He sighed and then turned intent eyes on John.  "I can see it went fairly well, took a lot out of you, and in all likelihood, you apparently need to be fed.  We have some time, and can still catch a train that will get us home before it gets too late."

"Dinner sounds wonderful," John was still trying to catch up and then keep up, taken such by surprise to see him here.  "And then you can tell me what your fantasies actually do include."  He smiled, very glad then to have company.  "I find I'm now rather intrigued by the subject."

++

John's email was typically 95% junk mail or spam, with the remainder mostly notices from comments on his blog and updates regarding hits, traffic, and notifications, so it took him a few minutes to recognise an actual, legitimate email from Whitchurch Hospital, where Sid was being treated.  He'd had to sign in with contact information including mobile and email.

It was simply a verification email, looking to confirm his identity, and that additional contact had been requested from one of the patients there.  By procedure, he was being asked for permission before the email would be sent.  John responded in the affirmative, answered the questions as confirmation, and wondered if Sid was just looking to touch base.  He'd left his mobile number, but Sid had no available means to ring him.

There was another email from Whitchurch a few days later.

_~~Captain Watson~~ John,_

_It's been a couple of weeks since your visit, and I'm still so very grateful you reached out, made contact, did all that traveling, and left the MC medal here - I stare at it all the time, too much probably, and your words keep echoing - I'm not a hero, everyone who served deserves this, and you're a good man, Sid._

_Last week, a new doc came to see me, one with a discharge plan and some goals that will allow me to leave this building.  Finally.  Safely.  He brought a mobile comm device, like what_

_like yours_

_like the one that failed.  (phew, gimme a minute)_

_and had me take it apart, put it back together, change the battery, swap out the wires._

_It was scary, holding that, until it was back together and working.  He took it with him and promised to return, which he did.  He is calling this project something like Transitioning Resettlement Programme, and explained that it is brand new, exactly for soldiers like me.  Ex-soldiers I guess.  Ones who struggled with unexpected shit happening._

_If all goes well, I might not be here too much longer.  Once I'm out, the plan will be daily sessions, a support group a couple evenings a week, follow up if I need it.  He also said that there is a 24 hour hotline, immediate therapy over the phone in case my mind gets ahead of me.  You had mentioned that you struggled with that too, the constant barrage of questions.  And fear.  Until you shared that, I thought it was just me and that I was too broken to ever function._

_Maybe not, now that you've been here.  And with this new Transition programme._

_Anyway, thanks for your visit.  Interesting coincidence that I feel it was a turning point - maybe when things are much improved, I can make contact from the outside, we can have coffee.  Good stuff this time and not that crap they gave us a few weeks ago?_

_Sid_

++

"Dr. Watson?"  The receptionist tapped on the door mid morning, where John was between patients reviewing a chart.  "Your 11 am canceled."

He eyed the work he was accumulating for after hours, thought perhaps he would make a nice dent in that.  "Okay, thanks."

"And," she had a bit of an apologetic air to her, "you have a visitor."  John steeled himself against someone unwelcome, someone in sales perhaps, or a difficult prior patient or family without an appointment who just had to see him.  If it were Sherlock waiting for him, the receptionist would definitely have said that.  He didn't come by the office often, but when he did, it was almost always memorable.  More than one of the nurses or front desk helpers had ended up upset from something he'd said.  Not Sherlock, then.

"Fine, I'll be out in a tic."

A deeper voice from the hallway simply said "thank you" and the receptionist disappeared.  The door opened wider and in walked a decorated army general, with his name and MD on his tagged uniform, his left chest adorned with multiple buttons, ribbons, and pins indicating a long and documented service career.  "No need."  Reflexively, John rose to his feet, arm coming up in a requisite and almost habitual salute.  The man smiled, shook his head, saying, "As you were, doctor."  John reached out for a handshake instead, then, and the man introduced himself simply as "Joe."  Curious, John shut the door behind the receptionist who left, and the men both sat down.  "I won't take much of your time, if you can spare me a few minutes."

"What can I do for you?" John asked, on edge, suppressing the niggling fear that this was somehow linked to perhaps his visit with Sid, or his injury, to the patrol or the mission, his vulnerability.

"Not exactly the right question."  He pulled out the file he was holding, slid a few xrays from it, and gestured to the radiology view box on the wall.  "May I?"

"Of course."  Within a moment, both of them were standing, perusing shoulder images and Joe pointed to a certain spot, opened his mouth.

John interrupted.  "These are mine," he stated, rhetorically looking over at Joe, who nodded.  John leaned in close, could see his name written on the margin, and the date of his injury on one, the repeat film a few days post op on the other.

"I believe I can help you.  I understand your injury has left you with some residual sensory loss, left you unable to return to your previous surgical career."  Slowly, John nodded, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.  "In all likelihood, there has been scar tissue that has formed a ridge around the nerve along the trajectory of the bullet's damage, you've got some outlet impingement that's not resolved.  Swelling initially had you numb, from what your chart indicates, and resultant scarring now.  Sometimes it's simply fibrous tissue, more rarely a neuroma develops, both of which, to a degree, can be resected without damaging axons.  We've had good results with these new procedures, Dr. Watson."

"John."  He looked at the films again.  "Kind of a modified lysis of adhesions?"

"John."  He nodded.  "Similar, specific to entrapment neuropathy.  We have been working on various procedures to determine the best way to remove some of the scarring, restore function, ultimately restore sensation.  It's all done with high-precision technology."  He gestured at John's arm, held out his hand, palm up, and John placed his left arm up for inspection.  "You are numb here, here, and along here, yes?"  

"Mostly, not quite up this far," John said, indicating the line of delineation where his sensations changed.  "But, yes."

"You'd be a perfect candidate, if you're willing.  We've had some amazing success stories, with damage far greater than yours."  He took John's fingers, testing both muscle tone and range of motion, flexing and extending each finger in turn, then his wrist.  With a questioning look in his eyes, he indicated John's lab coat and shirt, asked, "May I?"  John slid the coat off, unbuttoned the top buttons enough to provide visibility, and John stood still while clinician fingers tapped, palpated, and assessed.  The man exuded an arrogant confidence, his touch secure and skilled.  And yet there was a gentle awareness that kept watching John's face for the first sign of discomfort if the limits of his movements were pushed.  "Some physical therapy may be beneficial to you, even if you choose not to pursue the surgery."

"What has been your experience for patients who are prone to scar, particularly internally, with developing additional scar tissue?"

"We've had some."

"Have any of them ended up actually worse off?"

"There have been a few."  He was direct, another trait John appreciated.  "Unlikely."

"I'll think about it."  

"Keep in mind that the longer you wait, the more likely the muscles are to atrophy, even a slight amount can be significant.  Particularly if you'd like to get back into the OR suite."  John worked at keeping his breathing even, calm, despite the turmoil he was aware of within him.  "An MRI and an EMG would be helpful in determining the team's exact recommendations.  I have referrals here" and he patted the file in his hand, then slid the documents out to lay them on John's desk "that can get you scheduled almost immediately."  John could feel his heart racing, connected somehow to the twinges that still lingered in his shoulder.  While it wasn't pain at the moment, it was certainly an awareness, a niggling reminder that it was still there.  It was invasive, intrusive, and part of him.  The man, with both military and British aloofness, stood without moving, no tell of emotion on his features.  His icy demeanor reminded John of ...  

"Tell me, Joe, how was it that my file came to your attention?"

"Mr. Holmes, sir."  He kept a careful eye on John, reading him as best as he could, and would only note the minuscule nasal flaring and jaw clench because he was looking.  He'd been warned that John would almost certainly ask that question, and was advised to not circumvent nor belabour the point.  "Think it over."  A card was pressed into John's hand.  "My contact information.  I'm hopeful that you'll agree to let us help you."

John slid the card, unseen, into his trouser pocket.

When he related the story later to Sherlock, he tried to make light of it, that the RAMC wanted him back on active duty and would re-enlist him as soon as he was medically cleared to operate again.

"What did you tell him?" Sherlock finally asked.

"The better question is, what did _you_ tell him?"  Sherlock gestured as if he didn't understand.  "He said a Mr. Holmes had contacted him about my case."

Sherlock kept a steady expression as he eyed John.  "I'm not the only Mr. Holmes.  I'm sure you've not forgotten about Mycroft?"

"That's not bloody likely now, is it?  Was it you?"  John was uncertain now that he'd brought the subject up, and wondered if he was misreading Sherlock.   "I would like an answer."

"It was a joint effort, actually.  My idea initially, his connections and clout."  Sherlock had wondered how quickly John would put it together, and was not surprised it had been very early in the process.  "The military medical division has made remarkable strides in correcting and sometimes completely reversing nerve impingement..."  John was closing off, so Sherlock stopped speaking.  "You're not angry?"

"No.  Of course not."  Sherlock watched a myriad of sentiments cross John's face, watched him have many things he wanted to say but choose to keep them all to himself.

"Fixing it now might also prevent worsening later in life."

John toed off his shoes there on Baker Street, Sherlock slouched in the chair opposite him, a typical evening - take away boxes, tea, and companionship.  "Are you worried that I might lose my ability to _grasp_ things?"  He held up his dominant hand, joined his thumb to the tips of his fingers, chuckled as Sherlock realised what he meant, the gesture obvious but he wriggled his wrist a bit just in case Sherlock was being deliberately obtuse.  Their tendency to embrace the occasional moments of inappropriate humour was stress-reducing.

"I wasn't until you mentioned it."

John let the grin linger, took a deep breath, continued more serious again.  "I didn't think it was Mycroft after the first few seconds, but then I wasn't sure.  He's worked rather hard to make amends, show his true colours."

"He is still Mycroft.  And an annoying, dodgy presence."  John wondered, again, if Sherlock disliked him as much as he let on.  "Don't give him too much credit."

"Or underestimate him?  Yeah, I get that about him."  John said quietly, without pretense.  "I was fairly certain this was your doing.  And not at all about the hand jobs, by the way.  However, it would have been nice to have been warned."  Sherlock was still amused at the hand job comment, so John lifted his fingers and drew them toward his mouth.  "How recently have you washed these?  I could demonstrate an alternative..."

"I wouldn't.  And I might have warned you about the visit, except that the doc wasn't sure when he was going to make it in."

"For all I know, you're sick of my company and want me back in Afghanistan."

Sherlock was shaking his head emphatically.  "Absolutely not."  For a brief nervous moment, Sherlock wondered if John did actually want to join up again, and for a crazy few seconds, he wondered about drastic measures that he could bring to the table to ensure John did not venture out of greater London.  It occurred to him, then, that he and Mycroft did share a gene pool, and then John was speaking again.

"I wouldn't go, even if this was completely successful.  That was a good season, doing surgery in that setting, but, well, that part's over.  Completely."  As he said it, he became reconciled with it, saying it out loud was helpful.  "Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on you."  John could feel the corners of his mouth rising, and the thought became verbal before he could stop it.  "Someone went to a bloody lot of trouble to bring me here in the first place, you recall, to _mind_ you."  What once would have been fully crass to joke about was now, at times, occasionally very funny, and they both grinned mischievously at that.

"I don't need minding."

"When was the last time you ate?"  John raised an eyebrow.  "And how many patches would you have on if I was not rationing them out to you?"  They shared a bit of a grin at that.  "You do need minding, you git, and I need _this_."  His hands took in the flat, gesturing at the room and between the two of them, and he let that sink in but did not elaborate.  John's expression faded to neutral, although not upset, simply serious.  "I told him I'd think about it.  But I'm going to tell him no."

Sherlock was somber, blue eyes taking in the magnanimity of the decision.  "I thought you might."

"Too risky, a chance it could get worse, risk of more damage, infection.  But," he began, a crease between his eyebrows and he looked at Sherlock until he had his full and undivided attention, "it was particularly nice to have a choice to make."

++

It had been months, many wonderful months, since Sherlock had been awakened abruptly in the middle of the night by one of John's nightmares, or even when a dream may have been starting and his breathing was aberrant.  So early one morning, dim light barely coming through the window edges, when John suddenly thrashed as if his skin was on fire voice alarmed, Sherlock was stunned into frozen disbelief for a bit.  There was yelling and brushing and John was sitting bolt upright with his eyes wide open and unseeing, his breath coming in short pants and every muscle tensed.  Scooting back just a bit in the bed, out of reach in case John attempted to strike out, Sherlock spoke his name a few times, then reached out a leg to nudge John toward wakefulness.

"John!"  The movements and panic became slightly less, and a few random St. Vitus' Dance movements of John's arms and then he startled himself to consciousness.  "John?"

Blue eyes became bright again, and John blinked rapidly.  He glanced around as if perceiving the presence of the enemy, his eyes roving the scene for a source of threat and danger.  "What the fuck?  Sherlock?"

"You're ok.  Safe."  He watched John closely for lingering confusion or stress.  "You had another dream?"  And then John's shoulders were shaking, his hands up to his face, covering himself in self-defence perhaps, or as if ashamed or still frightened.  The shaking continued, and then a moaning gasp or two, and then Sherlock realised the difference.  And it was a big difference.

John was _laughing_.  Great gulps of air interspersed by quiet laughter quickly put both of them at ease despite the frightening parallels to what John's nightmares used to entail.

"Ok, haha."  Sherlock was now brightly awake and irritated that he couldn't figure out what had happened.  "What is so bloody funny?"

"Oh, just wait a sec," John said, his breathing still quick, and he ran his fingers through his still slightly mussed and sweaty hair until it stuck up.  John's hair was rarely a mess, and Sherlock had grown to really enjoy this side, this bedheaded side of John.  "Phew, that was... "

"John," Sherlock growled, his typical impatience even shorter.  "Out with it."

"Cor, hold your horses," he leaned back against the pillow, started to talk, "Remember when we got home from the case that one evening, and I found mice in the bloody closet, remember?"  Sherlock vividly recalled that John had interrupted the phone call with his brother but hadn't overheard anything relevant.  It had been right before he'd unearthed what Mycroft had orchestrated.  "Your biscuits, as I recall, up on the second floor.  You left bloody biscuits as mice bait?"  

"Oops, yes," he answered.  In his mind, it was still justifiable, keeping stashed food upstairs to maintain focus.  Or to be able to appease John's sense of wanting to feed him regularly.

"In my dream," John began, still snickering, "I was a box of biscuits, your favourites, those lemon ones?  There were mice all over me.  Everywhere."  He could still feel little clawed feet on his skin, tiny little murine toes, a vivid dream that was unpleasant, and he brushed his hands against him again, trying to deaden the sensations.  "They were attacking."

In answer, Sherlock did a quick lunge, his mouth coming against John extremely ticklish spot just below his waist, and he nipped and sucked and wriggled John into submission, still laughing, the little nips and tingles all over his skin from the dream-state rodents being very wonderfully replaced by sensations of the much more sensual and fulfilling variety.

++

John had been sort of wishing for an evening home without plans, and didn't have to wait long for the opportunity to arise.  Lestrade had made contact with Sherlock for a case, and John begged off the invitation to tag along, claiming he had some reading to do, maybe work a bit on the blog.  Sherlock had heard the words "decaying flesh at the scene" and was too itchy to get to the crime location that it didn't occur to him to question John's declination.  

Mycroft answered the text right away in the affirmative, that he would see John at the requested time at the tavern John suggested.  John'd given no reason, just asked him to join him.  It was a short but brisk walk for John, and he arrived a few minutes before Sherlock's brother did.

John was simply waiting at the far end of the bar, at the quieter side of the room, and Mycroft gestured for the barman, requested two whiskey's to be brought over.  John took a quick sip, set the glass down.  A bit of small talk ensued, and Mycroft asked how John's shoulder was faring.

"Good.  Had a little workup with an army surgeon.  Turned down the procedure he offered."

"So I'd heard.  More's the pity."

"Not risking it, but wanted to say thanks for the offer, the  ... coordination of care.  All the way around, you know, the new additions and services.  New training programme for new recruits, the transition to home programme.  Some nice, long-lasting changes."  Mycroft simply looked steadily back at John, so he continued, "We found out about these rather posh monthly dinners to my former unit, know anything about that?"

"Not a thing."

"I believe the phrase earlier was, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That too."  Mycroft raised the tumbler to his lips, but not before John saw the smile Mycroft was trying to hide.

"You may feign ignorance all you want, but you heard the thank you?"

"Indeed.  You're welcome."

"Just so you know, my decision on the surgery is final.  Not interested.  And definitely not looking to somehow find myself spirited off to some remote hospital or kidnapped.  Also, I do not wish to be re-injured and offered some sort of package deal on fixing this along with anything else, if you know what I mean."  John wanted to make sure that Mycroft was not plotting some complicated endeavor to somehow force his hand.

Mycroft turned alarmingly innocent eyes on him.  Underneath that, however, John was fairly certain he saw just a hint of admiration.  John did not shy away from direct confrontation.  "I have no idea..." he began, intentionally dropping his gaze probably hoping to plant tiny seeds of doubt, that John might suspect a covert mission.

John had a sudden desire to find his bullet-proof gear again, squelched it, deciding on the beverage instead to free up his tongue.  "You know, I do believe any physical injury that might be afflicted on my person, Sherlock's going to be finding you at fault, no matter what it is.  I assure you he will act first and ask questions later."

"I am aware."  He considered John's seriousness.  "I could provide security if you ever are feeling threatened."  John tried not to gape at him, the suggestion that John was at risk from any other source other than this present company.   _Hello, fox, yes I have this hen-house that needs protection...?_

"No, of course not.  It was just something I wanted to say to you, preventatively."  The barman returned at Mycroft's gesture, refilled both tumblers.  "And I can completely understand something now, to be truthful."

Mycroft toyed with the tumbler as John glanced over, waiting for, if not a verbal question, an expression that meant he wanted more information.

"I would never have thought myself capable of such protectiveness, but," John stopped, words somehow not being strong enough to convey his feelings, "I would, myself, go to great lengths for him."  John made sure to keep eye contact just a moment long, and if Mycroft wanted to sense the slightest discomfort there, John was fine with that.  "Just thought you should know."

Mycroft's steady pale eyes looking back at him were unfathomable, yet John sensed there was relief, and so he continued with the point of why he'd asked Mycroft to join him.

"Now down to business.  I have something to tell you." Mycroft blue eyes were sharp and very interested as John began to speak.

++

John's blog comments were something he either read or didn't, but he didn't fret over them and if he missed weeks at a time, he didn't particularly care.

One morning, Sherlock had John's laptop (of course) open to the latest blog entry comment section, where John had written up the most recent (share-worthy) case involving a disgruntled and slightly unbalanced ex-military man who'd gone on a crime spree.  The comment was from an anonymous source, which John almost never gave much credence to, but apparently Sherlock had followed the trail.

"What's this, then?" John asked, not particularly up for riddles or much of anything before at least one fully caffeinated cup of tea.

"I'm not sure where this came from.  There's a possibility it may have been Mycroft."  Sherlock said with a nod.  "Check out the comment and the link."

It led to an article out of a smaller news journal from Cardiff, Wales.  The featured story was centered on an unnamed soldier who'd suffered a traumatic experience in Afghanistan, hinted at a conspiracy, settled on a miscommunication, and the journalist discussed the soldier's battle with PTSD and eventual acceptance into a new transitioning program for specific military personnel.  The man credited this program with his return to useful society, restoration of his own mental health, and wanted to especially pass along his gratitude to those who had seen a need and addressed it.  He mentioned a visit from a similarly discharged former unit member, a fellow ex-soldier who understood exactly what he had needed.  "He not only came to see me, he left me something meaningful - and I found my self-respect."

John read through a few of the comments on the blog, then, which were favourable and encouraging.  Opening the anonymous one, then, he answered, 'great article that ties in exactly to the point of the case, sounds like a beneficial program.  JW'

A few hours later, there was another anonymous reply to his response, simply 'indeed.'

++

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was bloody hot.  They'd managed to carve out a few days for a quick visit to the US, a few days here and there.  John had arranged one rather special visit ahead of time, something a patient had suggested one day when, early in the planning stages, John mentioned the trip.  Philadelphia was tall-buildinged with very little breeze, and the heat and humidity just hung over the streets.  The city smelled much different than London, was much newer, and missing the charm of the Eye and the Thames.  The thick humidity, though, was what was bothering John immensely.  Sherlock, however, was as excited - even after all these hours, _seven long_ hours, John tried not to remind himself - as John had ever seen him.  The Mutter Museum, there on 22nd Street, had been a tremendously well-received surprise.

"Skulls, John!  Look at this one, dated 14th century, look!!"  Sherlock had painstakingly gone through the museum already once, trying to get a feel for what was there and how long he could linger in each room, each exhibit better than the previous.  There were skulls, bones, replicas of organs, of conjoined twins, of the strange, odd, and bizarre medical realm in every nook and cranny of the place.  John glanced at his watch again, knowing another surprise was just around the corner, and they were on limited time.  Sherlock's commentary ranged from the bones to the tumours to the brains to the toxic megacolon, the likes of which were hard to fathom.

There was still something on the agenda there at the Mutter, so he nudged Sherlock a bit to keep him moving.

The forceful glare was akin to what a starving wolf would give another who challenged his freshly killed gazelle.  "Don't you dare rush me."

"I should tell you there's something outside.  Something wonderful outside."

Sherlock's expression could only be summed up as a hungry shark who'd just gotten a whiff of blood and was salivating in anticipation.  "Tell me."

Right on cue, a man approached them with a staff badge from the University of Pennsylvania Pharmaceutical Toxicology department.  John turned to greet him by name, introduce himself and Sherlock, and then sat back to let the magic happen.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, so pleased to finally meet you.  How are you finding America so far?"

John had many terms including hot and humid, but he could almost hear the excited growl from within Sherlock's chest, that impatient I'm about to stomp my feet sound.  "Very good, thanks," John interjected before Sherlock misspoke.  "Looking forward to your tour, here."

"Ah, yes," and he had a similar look of absolute passion about him as he turned to Sherlock.  "I hear you are a bit of a poisonous plant afficionado."

John was close enough to hear the barely breathed, 'oh John, oh my _god, John_!'  Sherlock reached out to the man's name badge to read all of his credentials, which included PhD and a few other initials even John would have to look up.  There was almost a chortle of glee.

"I will be showing both of you our outdoor garden, full of medicinal herbs and plants.  This month, the poisonous display is in full bloom.  Mr. Holmes, we have made special arrangements for a private showing when the museum closes to the public, but to provide you, discreetly of course, some of our finer samples for your own personal research."

++

John had finagled an extra hour from the curator, who left the outside lights on in the garden, said he'd be another few hours cleaning.  The arrangements John had requested was just some uninterrupted time alone among the toxic plant-life, although he phrased it to the staff, when he'd set it up, as something benign sounding.  

After the official, and amazingly substantial description of all the toxins present, they were finally left alone.  The old stone bench set among the blooming foxglove ended up where John turned his steps while Sherlock meandered back through some of his favorites, touching stems, leaves, soil, and pocketing a few seeds that just sort of happened to fall off some of the flowers.  John cast worried eyes at the building, didn't think they were being watched, but concerned none-the-less.  The video cameras, far as he could tell, probably were too far away to pick up his flatmates indiscretions.  They were only in the states a short time, anyway.

Sherlock, who was gazing wistfully back toward the walled-off display area in the off-limits garden area to the side of the Museum, finally strolled over.

"That was amazing."  Sherlock grinned down at John.  "Thank you."

"Still is."  John was enthralled with this aspect of Sherlock, the zesty and spicy side of his inquisitive nature.  It was impossible not to be charmed when Sherlock smiled like that, with all of his overgrown-man-child features.  "My pleasure.  A few emails, and the tour was set.  I thought you'd like it."

"They won't lose my samples, will they?  The courier had our hotel address, and you marked..."

Smiling patiently, John held out a hand to settle on Sherlock's chest.  "It's fine.  They've taken care of it.  The front desk will be expecting the package, and the concierge - I already talked to him, _relax_ \- will be on the lookout."

The doubtful look on his face told John he wasn't too sure, but he kept quiet about it.  "I hope so."

The heat of the mid-day had dwindled, and they were in the shade, although the air was still humid.  Sherlock's curls were springy in wayward directions and added to John's reasons to smile.  The sounds of the city, outside the garden, were a distant humming background noise.  Secreted away in the garden, close to the earth, the process of biology - cotyledons, macronutrients, pollenation, plant respiration processes, photosynthesis - all at work without outside assistance.  It was a safe haven of science.  Their silence was comfortable, the bench amidst all that they'd seen, the old stones in the heart of an academic setting.  

John aimed for relaxed, quiet conversation.  "What would you think, maybe someday, you know..."

Having turned to look at John, Sherlock was watching then with an acute interest, a fine-tuned focus.  His pale eyes sparkled as he watched the slight flush creep up John's neck.  Leaning back on the bench, relaxed in the setting, he crossed an ankle over his knee, foot tapping lightly as he waited.

John cleared his throat.  "Maybe when we get back to London, I don't know... we could invite a few close friends over...?"

"John."  The fussing at John's halting speech was all wrapped up in the single way Sherlock spoke his name - gentle, patient, chiding.   _God, he knows._ And then, _of course he bloody knows._

"I think, you know we've been together a long time, and ..."  John pulled at his shirt collar, thinking it had suddenly become quite warm again.

"Oh for god's sake."  Sherlock uncrossed his legs, tilting sideways on the bench to face John more fully. His brow arched in a regally, annoyed pose.  "I'm not going to marry a man who can't even get the words out properly!"  He slid his hand into John's, then, with something akin to glee at John's good-natured distress.  "Now, out with it."

"I was thinking ..."

"Stop.  Thinking is beyond you right now."  Sherlock grabbed John's other hand, which angled their bodies so they were face to face on the bench.  "Just say it."  His directive was gently spoken, low tones, as he sat.

"Let's get married."  His mouth opened a few times, with more to add, but he changed his mind, sat there.  Their eyes were still linked, as were their hands, and Sherlock simply waited for John to settle a bit.

"Of course we should." He shrugged. "Obviously."

"Sherlock."  He wanted to pull a hand away, run it nervously through his own hair, hide the giggle that he couldn't stop behind his fingers.  Instead, he leaned forward, closer to him, brushed his nose against Sherlock's then let his lips press down.  Hands released, they touched face, neck, collar, sliding into hair as the kiss deepened to include tongue, little nip of teeth.  "I just wanted ... I'm not in a rush, but I'm very sure."

"And you're ready."

"Yes," John agreed.  He sat back, feeling somewhat relieved and free of tension. "Now," John said.  "We have dinner reservations."

"I am not eating a ... _cheesesteak_.  I don't care that we are in Philadelphia and that experts argue endlessly between Pat's and Gambino's -"

"Geno's."

"Whatever."  He spoke dismissively.  "Irrelevant.  No."

"Oh, for pity's sake.  Stop it."  He consulted his mobile for the time.  "Probably too far to walk, think you can hail a cab here like back home?"  They headed through the gate, waved to the curator, and headed toward the busier end of the street.  "Dinner tonight will be superb, great restaurant, I made reservations weeks ago.  Let me tell you about this big ship over on the Waterfront.  They used to carry bat guano in the hold to and from Germany prior to WWII.  It's been converted into a restaurant now."

While that detail may have put off many other people, it was completely intriguing to Sherlock, to consider dining on a floating piece of rather, well... disgusting history.

A cab arrived, stopping close to Sherlock's raised arm, and they climbed inside.  John spoke.  "The Moshulu, please."

++

Sherlock nearly threw up his hands in frustration as he watched John nervously fuss at his tie.  Again.  Fuss at his buttons.  Toss his hair back again, run his hands through it with some sort of ridiculous case of nerves.  John must have sensed Sherlock's displeasure, looked up guiltily then let his hands fall to his sides.

"Stop it, you look fantastic."  John gestured helplessly at his tie.  "Or you will once I fix that.  But I'm not doing it at all if you're just going to muss it up again."

"I'm fine.  This is just... a big day."

"We're doing it just the way we talked about.  Friends.  Small.  Dinner at Angelo's.  No parents.  I liked your idea, by the way, of just a simple portrait as an announcement after the fact."

"I know."  

"You could still throw on your uniform, it'd look great, you know."

John arched an irritated eyebrow, leaned threateningly although with a harsh smile, and shook his head.  "Thank you, no.  Retired means retired.  Although Mycroft might cringe a bit if I were to wear the one with the bullet hole in it."

"Wear it for me later?"

"Is this one of those fantasies you hinted at?"

From out in the flat, they could hear Mrs. Hudson call out her typical "Halloo, boys?"  Sherlock batted John's hands out of the way, fixed the tie, as Mrs. Hudson continued, "There's a car here for us.  Are you ready?"

Greg, Molly, and a few others would be waiting for them in the understated location John insisted on, when he informed Mycroft that he would be discussing the future with his brother.  He made sure, that day in the tavern, to enlighten Mycroft that he was not asking permission, but was interested in giving Sherlock a special day, something that would be remembered forever.  There would be no flowers, just simple rings, no elaborate ceremony, just the beautiful simplicity of what they wanted - to declare in front of each other, that this was real and permanent and binding.

Mycroft had supplied the name of a jeweller to them both a few weeks ago, where each had separately ordered the engravings on elegant, classy platinum bands.  They would reveal the engraving during the ceremony.  Angelo had reserved a few tables for the small attendees, insisted on choosing the menu, and vehemently forbidden them to pay.  John had joked that Angelo could have bought his freedom for far less than what he'd given them over the years in free meals and now a free large dinner party, had he known.

The ceremony was lighthearted, not formal, punctuated with the occasional outburst from a few of their guests.  Sherlock had glared a few times, but softened up when John nudged him with his toe, raised an eyebrow, and threatened to fuss at his tie again.

John's ring, Sherlock explained when it was his turn, simply had three words on it:  Faithful in Adversity.  It was, he commented, the RAMC motto.

Sherlock's, John shared then with something of a hoarse voice but would have denied that it was emotion, that he was less creative, having chosen only two words.  The engraving was simply, Arduis Fidelis, which was the Latin version of the same thing.

Mycroft summed it up best, after the trickle of laughter had died down and they were shaking their heads over the similarity before dispersing for Angelo's.  "Obviously," he said to both grooms in a voice heavy laden with amusement, "it was a match made in heaven."

++

Epilogue

John had two charts left and something on his mind that he'd been planning all day, and this morning before leaving for work, and actually, for a while before that.  He forced completion of outstanding notes, heart pounding, palms moist in nervous anticipation, and pulled out his mobile.

**I want to try something tonight.**

**Haven't we already tried almost everything? SH**

**I left something under your pillow.** There was a brief pause on Sherlock's end of the conversation, and John correctly assumed he'd gone to investigate.

**A blindfold? SH**

**I should think that quite apparent.**

**Wanker.**   Then, **For _you_ to wear? SH**

**Yes.**

**Are you sure? SH**

**They're not permanent, you know.  It can be removed if it gets problematic.  Yes, I'm sure.**

**I'll make sure you enjoy it, you know. SH**

**I'm counting on it.  Oh, and Sherlock?**

He considered delaying his text response, making him wait, but holding the blindfold in his hand - thick, black satin, of course - was too impatient himself.   **I'm waiting. SH**

**I trust you.**

**Good choice. SH**

++

They'd had dinner, although neither had too much of an appetite, both with nervous anticipation.  Without much of a word, finally Sherlock could stand it no more, checked the lock on their front door, then took John's arm, steering him gently and without rush into the bedroom.

"You're sure?"

"Of course.  Don't make it such a big deal."  John stopped just inside the door, glancing over at the bed.  "It's just a blindfold," he added, but unfortunately his voice cracked as he said the word, hesitating over the consonants in the word.

Sherlock pursed his lips, wondering if this was indeed wise.  "Yeah, well, I'd rather not have bad associations running rampant in your brain when we have sex.  It's good and I want it to stay that way."

"All right.  If I get ...  if it seems... "  Sherlock sighed, turned on the small corner lamp, and came back to where John stood still word-searching inside the doorway.  The black satin blindfold was right where Sherlock had left it, folded neatly on the closer pillow.

"I'll stop anytime, if you don't like it."  He wrapped long arms around John, setting his chin down against John's head, letting the hug convey what they both needed without trying to quantify it.  "Do you want a safeword?"

"I should think stop should suffice."

"I hear red-yellow-green are more common."  John's brow furrowed at Sherlock's statement.  "In case saying stop is part of the appeal of the scene."

"It's not."  John angled his head upward to find out if Sherlock was smiling.  "And how do you know that, anyway?"

"Research for a case, John.  Obviously."  He eased back to allow some space between their bodies, letting his fingers seek out John's buttons, belt, zip.

"Then stop it is, although you'll have figured it out probably before I do."  John's fingers felt heavy and clumsy as he untucked Sherlock's shirt.  Between the two of them helping and perhaps a bit of not-helping, they managed to rid themselves of clothing and pull back the duvet.

"Lay down," Sherlock said gently, nudging him with most of his body.  Neither was fully erect, both mildly apprehensive.  "On your back." 

The blindfold was snug, well applied, and Sherlock liked the way John's hair fell over the knot, his mouth set in a serious, pensive line.  He waited just a few moments, letting John lay still until he was calmer, breathing easily before any touching occurred.  He caught a glimpse of John's wedding band, shiny.  He'd said, after they'd returned from Angelo's, that of all the things he'd ever seen John wear, that ring was probably the sexiest.

"Here comes my hand," he warned quietly, "don't startle."  John's breath hitched, with an alert looking tilt to his head as Sherlock let his hand slide into John's neck.  Long fingers brushed against the angle of John's jaw, a thumb over his lip.  "Ok?"

"That's nice," John breathed, and Sherlock could tell he was inclined to say more.

"Shh.  Just feel."  And Sherlock reclined on an elbow, touching John's shoulder, watching his breathing, watching the carotid artery bounding at his neck, watching John's penis twitch but not fill.  "Still just fingers," he cautioned, and moved to John's right nipple, to the center of chest.  John was biting his lip, just a bit, and Sherlock waited, his fingers unmoving along John's pectoral.  "Is this ok?"

"Yes, and stop asking me.  I'll tell you if it's not."

"I really would prefer you to be quiet then.  You're easier to read when you're not talking."

John nodded, a small smirk on his face, "I'm not promising that.  You're less annoying when you're not talking, too, by the way."

Without notice, although very gently, Sherlock dug in with his toes and brought his mouth to John's, letting a slow and comfortable snog session do much to ease the nervous chatter, not to mention to occupy John's mouth.  John's breathing deepened, and Sherlock glanced down to see the state of John's arousal.  He was beginning to get interested.  "You taste very nice," Sherlock said, his tongue coming out to taste ear, neck, down toward clavicle.  John responded by tilting his head, exposing vulnerable neck and pressing into Sherlock's ministrations.

"Please don't bite," John whispered, then a soft moan came from his throat as Sherlock let his hand firmly press into John's nipple.

"My skin does not sparkle in the sunlight, you know," he quipped, alluding to the vampire reference in juvenile literature that John had teased him about so long ago.  While John laughed, Sherlock pressed his mouth over the puckered, angry pale-red scar, smooth and healed.  Gentle kisses and licks turned into more, and John, from behind the blindfold, could feel the bed dip as Sherlock moved across his body to kneel at his other side.

"They almost definitely started your IV here, on the uninjured arm," he said when there was no panicking.  Since John's text earlier, Sherlock had been debating on whether to ignore the previously traumatic incidence when John's vision was obstructed, or to mention it directly and gently offer the similarities.  He knew John would have been thinking about it either way.  In fact John seemed like he was doing very well, so Sherlock held John's right arm lightly in a hand grasp, placed the pad of his tongue along the inner groove of his antecubital fossa.  "They would have wiped here, cannulated this vein, I can still see the scar, tiniest little pinprick of white."  He mimed the actions with his tongue and mouth, licking and then sucking on the most likely area.

"They probably held your hand down, and I can't imagine you weren't struggling."

"Pretty sure," John said quietly, and all Sherlock's movements ceased for the moment as he took in the essence of John's level of emotion, "and I believe the phrase I used was fuck off."

"Entirely appropriate," he responded, seeing John's tension even as he lay there, submitting and yet still very much in control of himself, "and very much in character."  Both of them smiled, knowing John's colourful language wasn't likely to change.  Sherlock moved on his knees until he was next to John's chest, then gathered the corner of a pillow in his hand.  He eased it down over to John's injured shoulder, then leaned up enough that he could hold the pillow over John's scar with a bit of weight.  "They would have been pressing hard, to stop the bleeding, holding your arm at the same time, to get the IV in."

"A knee."

Sherlock cocked his head, considering.  "What?"

"There was a knee on my hand, my wrist."  Another shift, the mattress moving slightly as Sherlock slid over to place his naked knee into John's hand to hold it immobile against the bed.  "It was wearing clothing."  John's smile was tentative, somewhat entertained.

"I'm not stopping to get dressed."  He lowered his mouth to John's nipple, lightly teasing then nipping, pulling his head back then to blow, the cool air hardening it into a sensitive nub.  "You ready for more?"

"I remember the burn of the med going in my IV."  Sherlock eased pressure off John's old injury, letting his hand slide down John's abdomen to rest on his hip.  "And the sedative taking effect.  Vision shaky, the nystagmus.  And then nothing."  Sherlock lowered his head again to the bend of John's elbow, intent on sucking a mark into his skin, overwriting the area and the memory.  John moaned, the sensations heightened in part from the blindfold, in part with the foggy memories.

"I think," Sherlock said, his hand coming up into John's hair, "that you've earned a reward for your troubles."

"If you are offering yourself as the reward..."

"No.  But what do you really want, right this second?"

He pursed his lips, the silence dragging on.

"Answer, or I'm switching places with you. Because I know exactly what I'd be asking for."

"You'd be demanding." Smiling, John arched his back, seeking more of Sherlock's touch, of the building heat. "Ride me, then."

"Fine, good," Sherlock said, abandoning his touches of John's face to open the drawer for the lube, although he still watched John to see that John was paying close attention, listening.  He was fully erect, and beautiful.  "You want this off?" he asked quietly, bringing his hand back to the blindfold, tucking a finger underneath it.

"No.  It's..." John puffed out a breath, his hand reaching to find and then grasp Sherlock's erection.  "I'm choosing, and it's okay."

++

"Red, yellow, or green, huh?" John asked quietly, sated, his head and limbs heavy as he basked under Sherlock's attention.  His skin was cooling and his muscles felt relaxed and weighty.  

There was a small smile, then, and then the teasing was back in Sherlock's bright eyes.  "Save something for next time, then?"  Sherlock flicked off the lamp, returned to John's still boneless form in the bed.  "Never know when we might need that information for a case."

"Never let it be said that I would stand in the way of research."  John's breathing settled as Sherlock snuggled up against him.  Their hands met, fingers entwined on John's chest as they lay, comfortably and easy with each other.  His finger brushed the edges of Sherlock's ring.  "And you know, Faithful in Adversity pretty much sums up what we have here."  John felt Sherlock's smile against his shoulder.  "It's good."  

The arms encircling him tightened just a bit, released, and Sherlock added, "In either language."

The smile was still on John's face as he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly. Way longer and way more complicated than I expected. But thanks for sticking with this and I hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> So when I started writing this, I had NO IDEA what I wanted to do in the way of resolution - I imagined about four different outcomes from the beginning, and ended up using a combination of several anyway. I guess my indecision about the ending allowed the characters to hijack the story in a few places... Seriously, they absolutely wrestled control from me and I was just along for the ride!
> 
> On the show (and in the fandom) I really like the character of Mycroft Holmes, and I still do (even this variation of him). Even in this story, he means well although definitely crosses the line of acceptable behaviour. As far as the actual discussion might have gone between John and Mycroft, I leave that to your imaginations, although I did write it several times (and with quite a few variations, including one that was an exquisitely fun BAMF!John) and preferred this crafting of the encounter. Less is more sometimes, and in this case, I felt it worked best.
> 
> And of course, now that there has been Tumblr suspicion that something may have happened to the character of Mycroft in S4 (OMG, say it isn't so, I swear I'll be nicer to him in every other fic I write!), I have had misgivings about rewriting the whole blasted thing.
> 
> The Mutter Museum is definitely an odd place, and the megacolon is unparalleled if you're into that sort of medical unbelievability. The Moshulu, the tall ship on the Waterfront, is a great place for a special occasion, and according to many though difficult to prove online, it was definitely used for the very bizarre transportation of bat guano.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments. If a typo slipped by me (and as usual, I edit the crud out of a piece as it comes to hitting that scary 'Post' button, so the last minute edit thing is my absolute downfall!), please let me know (nicely).

**Author's Note:**

> Certainly, I have taken liberties with Mycroft's far-reaching abilities to get into anything he wants and manipulate people... Or have I?


End file.
